


you're gonna sing the words wrong

by strangetowns



Category: SKAM (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, American High School Shenanigans, M/M, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 00:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 31,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12264906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strangetowns/pseuds/strangetowns
Summary: He looks like someone stuck together a bunch of parts they thought looked good on their own and expected the result to look like a person, with no sense of what an actual person looks like.Ridiculous. He should look utterly fucking ridiculous.(The most ridiculous thing is that he doesn’t.)“Goddamn,” Eva says approvingly. “Them calves, though.”-In which Even is simultaneously the biggest loser and the hottest teenager on the planet, and Isak is simultaneously super gay and super pressed about it. Or: a marching band AU.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively: the most niche thing I've ever written probably??? Sorry not sorry.
> 
> So this is a little bizarre, admittedly. This fic was supposed to be much longer [about five times as long, to be precise; i outlined it as a 5+1 like the cheesy fucker I am] but I have come to the realization that I'm just not going to have the time to finish it, at least not for a long, long while. So, in the interest of not letting this die a slow death in my drafts because I actually kind of like how it turned out, I'm turning this into a meet-cute and just running with it?? Bummer I'm probably not going to finish my original plans for it, but uh. Who knows. Maybe one day. Never say never, i guess.
> 
> A note about the verse - yes, this is set in American public high school, because marching band is kind of an American thing. I accidentally wrote my own version of US Skam I guess?? oops lol. Most of the characters are children of Norwegian immigrants, though. Also, this is based very much on my own experiences with marching band and is not meant to be a representation of everyone's experiences with it. I've tried to make marching band jargon understandable, but if anything is confusing feel free to ask.
> 
> Thank you, as always, to my lovely betas [Lyds](http://boxesfullofthoughts.tumblr.com) and [Allie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack). Title comes from Vance Joy's "[Riptide](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uJ_1HMAGb4k)".

_I._

The sky is infuriatingly perfect when Isak gets to school for the year’s first day of band camp, all blue and cloudless and stupidly bright even with his sunglasses on. It’s not even nine yet and he can already feel his tank sticking to his skin with sweat. Fuck July. Fuck summer. Fuck the fucking sun itself.

“Really, asshole?” he mutters as he pulls his trumpet case out of Eva’s trunk. “Couldn’t have given us a light drizzle or something?”

He can hear the muffled sound of a snort from where Eva’s pulling her own instrument out of the backseat. He rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother throwing up his middle finger at her. Figures it’s probably implied.

Eva sets her mellophone case down on the pavement and bumps the car door shut with her hip, shooting him a look brimming with judgment in the process. He doesn’t even blink, he’s so used to it. He gets that look a lot.

“Stop talking to the weather, weirdo.” Eva taps a button on her car keys, and the locks on the doors click shut. He shoots one last wistful glance at it as they pass by it, instruments in hand. She only recently got her license so her car’s nothing fancy, just an old sedan passed down to her from her parents, but fuck, at least it has air conditioning.

“Make me,” he says. It’s not a clever comeback, he’s well aware, but it’s literal hours before noon and he can’t even drink coffee in case it makes his stomach go to shit in the hot sun. He feels well deserving of some slack, here. The goddamn sacrifices he makes for the sake of marching.

“Also,” Eva continues as if Isak hadn’t spoken, which he supposes was only to be expected, “I’m pretty sure you’re the only person in the entire world who’d want to march in rain.”

“Fuck you,” Isak says automatically. “Marching in the rain would be the shit.”

“It’s fucking gross, is what it is,” Eva says. “The ponchos the band parents give out are probably a million years old. And then you have to deal with wet sneakers for, like, a week.”

“It’s peaceful,” Isak protests. “And at least if it were raining it wouldn’t feel like we were burning in the eighth circle of hell.”

Eva ruffles his hair, an exasperatedly fond gesture. The fact that he actually lets her instead of pushing her hand away is probably a better testament to his tolerance of her as a person than anything else.

“So dramatic,” she says. “You’re gonna put off the freshmen if you keep the cynicism up.”

 _Like that’d be a problem,_ Isak almost says, but Eva’s right, he probably shouldn’t be so mean about the rookies when he’s supposed to be section leader for the trumpets and thus actually in charge of some of them this year.

(Why their director thought giving him responsibility over actual living human beings was a good idea, he’ll never know, but hey, he’s not going to complain. It’ll look great on his resume for college apps.)

“ _You’re_ dramatic,” he mumbles instead. Eva only laughs in response, which, okay, fine, he probably deserved that one. Even for an uncaffeinated early morning, that was bad.

It doesn’t take them long to make their way out of the parking lot. Eva pushes the door to their school open and lets him in. Down a couple hallways, through another doorway, and there it is. That familiar smell (mostly sweat and metal, but somehow not entirely unpleasant?) hitting him almost immediately, trophies from decades ago lining the walls (none from recent years, but Isak’s not bitter or anything), good old carpeted floor that’s seen only god knows what (Isak knows, actually - saliva, a worrying number of food spills, and an inordinate amount of various other bodily fluids).

It’s the band room.

He pauses in the doorway, barely paying Eva any mind when she passes him. Fuck, he’s missed this place. It’s been months since he was last here, but it almost feels like no time’s passed at all.

(Almost like he’s coming home again.)

And yeah, he’s fully aware how awful that sounds, almost wants to punch himself in the face for being so sentimental. He doesn’t actually, mostly because being back here feels - good. It feels good and right. He doesn’t feel entirely himself in a lot of places, but this is one of the few exceptions in the whole world. Seems that holds true now too, this summer.

(The second to last summer he gets to think that, his brain reminds him.

Fuck off, he says to it cheerfully.)

Isak sweeps his eyes across the room, trying to get a sense of who’s there already. Thankfully, Eva actually humored him this morning when he insisted they get there early (she doesn’t always, usually teases him for being so uptight, but whatever, Eva, so he likes giving himself time to get used to things before they really start getting crazy again, sue him), and there’s only a few people milling around. Pretty much all upperclassmen. He doesn’t see any hapless new faces that seem to belong to his section, though they’ll start pouring in before long. Parents tend to get anxious about this kind of thing. They’ll like to drop off their kids early, too.

Sana’s hovering near the front, talking quietly to the director. Makes sense, considering her newfound drum major duties. The thought of having to be in charge of an entire marching band (the thought of having to beat time for the whole band to see and hope to god you can keep things from falling apart) is enough to give him palpitations, but he figures if there’s anyone in their year who’s capable of doing it, it’s her. He salutes her jauntily from across the room, earning a roll of her eyes and a short wave. That’s probably the best he’s ever going to get from her. He can’t really complain.

He half-expects Eva to go over to her, but instead she runs across the room in the other direction and tackle-hugs Chris Berg (or pit Chris, as most people know her, not to be confused with trumpet Chris; Isak personally thinks dickface Chris is a more apt description, but he graduated last year so thankfully he’s not really Isak’s problem anymore) by the mallet percussion instruments with a loud laugh. Which, okay, Chris is standing next to Vilde, and that makes sense, especially considering the first thing Eva does when she pulls away from the hug is plant a kiss on Vilde’s surprised mouth.

(Ugh. Fucking couples. Gross.)

Unfortunately, being at band camp this early means none of Isak’s other friends are here yet, either. Of fucking course. Magnus and Mahdi don’t have leadership positions this year, so they don’t actually have to be here this morning. The bastards. Jonas, as this season’s illustrious brass captain, does, but he lives within walking distance of the school, loves sleep, and thus probably won’t be showing up until two minutes before practice starts. Not that it’ll make much of a difference. Everyone will still love him.

(He’s also a bastard.)

Isak heads for a relatively empty corner of the room and leans his case against the wall, casting another wary glance around him. It’s good to have some time to himself - the first day of band camp is always pretty rough, and it’s only going to get worse from here; better to take advantage of this solitude when he can - but too much of it, and he’s going to get antsy. He’d like to say he never feels obligated to interact with other people even when it’s uncomfortable, only talks to them on his own terms, but he can’t lie to himself. He knows he’s just not that kind of guy.

Hopefully people will start trickling in soon enough, and hopefully the freshmen won’t make him want to claw his eyes out. That’s an unfair thought, anyway. He remembers distinctly what it was like to be a freshman. It’s hard enough for band camp to be your first ever exposure to what high school is like (before high school even starts, no less) without the upperclassmen who’re supposed to give the biggest shit about you being dickholes to your face.

He rubs his eyes, sighing. Remembering his time as a freshman is probably on his list of top three least favorite things to do, so he makes himself think of something else. What the season’s music is going to be like (please, god, let their director not have chosen something horrendously campy for their halftime show; last year, the show’s theme was about fucking flowers of all things, obviously an attempt to pose as awards season bait, not that it worked, and Isak’s still recovering from the loss to his dignity). How much he hopes there’ll be at least one decent player among the freshmen in his section this year (and how much of a stretch even that thought is; the older players are already a bit of a travesty, all things considered). How much he’s already looking forward to a weekend of nursing his sore muscles and sleeping for a million years to recover from a long, hard week (or, more accurately, probably not sleeping at all).

In the process, he squeezes some sunscreen into his palm, slathers it on his arms and legs and neck and face. Of course, no matter how hard he tries, he almost always ends band camp with some sort of horrific sunburn somewhere, and the sock tan he’ll inevitably acquire will be even worse, but hey, a boy can dream.

By the time he’s done, reaching for his snapback and placing it carefully over his hair, the band room’s already filled up a little with the new folks. He waves over the trumpet players he can see (easy to spot with their cases and their shellshocked expressions) and plasters on a smile he hopes comes across as friendly enough, which he figures is about as much as he can ever aspire to. “Isak,” he introduces himself, “your section leader,” and tries not to wince at the words. It’s a little awkward, mostly because the freshmen are still looking at him like he’s going to bite their heads off, and he doesn’t really know how to get them to stop doing that. So he sticks his hands in his pockets and wanders off, mumbling vague words about how he can’t wait for practice to start and trying not to wonder if they already hate him.

(He couldn’t blame them, honestly. It’s kind of depressing to think of it happening this early, but he’s also kind of accepted it as an inevitability of being in a position of power. What does it matter to him if it happens sooner rather than later?)

He tries looking for people he can actually hold a conversation with, with mixed results. Jonas still isn’t here, go fucking figure. Vilde’s off with her color guard rookies, saber in her hands and typical sunny grin on her face. Sana’s got a small circle of people around her and looks incredibly busy, so best not to disturb her much as he enjoys getting on her nerves (he doesn’t, but he’s pretty sure anything he does gets on her nerves anyway, whether he likes it or not). Chris is chilling with the drum line, tapping out quirky rhythms on one of the snares with her signature rainbow-taped sticks. He asked her once why she didn’t just apply to be on the drum line when she clearly liked beating the shit out of things (as opposed to what she does now, which is daintily hitting calming melodies out of the mallet percussion instruments), and she bit into the apple in her hand and said, “The pit needs a rockstar.” He had nothing to say to that.

Eva’s not talking to anyone, though, so he gravitates toward her and tries not to look too grateful. She’s sitting on the floor with piles of music scattered around her and a confused frown on her face. She’s the head librarian this year, meaning she’s in charge of getting copies of the music out to the rest of the marching band, but he’s not sure she herself feels well-suited to the job.

He walks up to her and nudges her ankle with his foot. “Hey, need some help?”

She looks up at him and shoots him a bright smile. How she has the energy to smile like that at this time of day, he’ll never know. Scratch what he thought earlier about the summer heat; morning people are even worse, if only because he doesn’t understand them at all.

“I _think_ I’ve got it,” she says. “Gosh, I hope I don’t mix up this stuff, though. That’d suck ass.”

“No kidding,” he says sympathetically. “Can I - ”

She pats the ground next to her. “Yes, Isak, join me and we can talk shit about people.”

He snorts, but otherwise takes a seat next to her without protest. “Is that your thing?”

“No, it’s yours,” Eva says, giving him a meaningful look.

“Okay, but it’s still early in the season,” Isak says defensively. He knows it’s a weak argument, but whatever. Still worth a shot. “I’m giving everyone the benefit of the doubt.”

“Yeah, and by the end of tomorrow you’ll be typing five-text long rants to me about how much each person in your section sucks,” Eva says with a snort.

“Jesus,” Isak says, taken aback. “Don’t expose me like this.”

She bumps into his shoulder, a playful gesture. “Only when you stop making it so easy,” she says. “Did you hear we’re getting a senior transfer this year?”

Isak blinks at the sudden subject change. “What? Is that even a thing?”

“Apparently,” Eva says with a shrug. “I heard he marched all four years, but the director’s still making him come to rookie camp, poor fucker. Also, he’s supposed to be ridiculously attractive.”

Isak can’t help but roll his eyes at that. “Where do you get your information, and why does that even matter?”

“Fuck you, it matters a lot, okay,” Eva sniffs.

“If he can march, I don’t see why it does,” Isak says. “Or why I care.”

She looks at him as if he just said something mind-numbingly stupid. Then again, she looks at him like that a lot, no matter what he actually says. Not much he can do about that, really.

“Hello?” she says. “You care because he’s sex on legs?”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “You have a girlfriend, Eva.”

“So? I’m still bi as fuck.” She bursts into a grin, sly this time. “Besides, that’s not my point.”

Fuck, and suddenly he can see clear as day what her point is. Then again, not like that’s hard. She’s not exactly subtle about this kind of thing, for better or for worse.

“What the fuck’s your point, then?” he says, feigning ignorance anyway. Maybe if he pretends this isn’t headed where he thinks it’s headed, it won’t actually go there.

“Well,” she says, “He’s a hot guy. And you’re into hot guys.”

Nope, that went exactly where he thought it was going.

Isak brings his hands up to his face and groans. “Can you for the love of god stop trying to set me up with any guy who walks through the door, jesus christ.”

Eva holds up her hands. “Hey, I’m not trying to set you up with anyone.”

“Uh huh,” he says dubiously.

“I’m just saying, keep your eye out, maybe?” She has the audacity to actually wink at him, here. He’s so affronted he can’t even deign that with a response, but for some godforsaken reason she takes his stunned silence as a cue to keep going. “You’re the one who’s always complaining about how none of the boys at our school are cute enough.”

There’s a small voice in the back of his head that wants to snap at her, tell her to keep her voice down. He pushes it down, a little irritated. He’d thought he’d rid himself of those instincts already, sometime last year when he came out to the whole band and decided he didn’t care anymore what other people thought about the people he wanted to kiss. But even if he’s not supposed to care anymore, the questions come to mind all too easily. Is this really the first impression he wants to make on people, these freshmen he hasn’t even talked to yet? That he’s boy-crazy, so gay all he ever talks or thinks about is boys? Or worse, that he _wants_ to be?

(He should know by now, of course, that there’s no point fighting the voices in his head. He’s tried for years. He’s lost every time.)

“You agreed with me the last time,” he grumbles, in lieu of all the other dumb things inside his head.

“Well, no, you’re not wrong.” Eva scrunches up her face. “Which is why I’m telling you this could be a golden opportunity.”

“I don’t need those, but thanks,” Isak says dryly.

Eva pats him on the shoulder. “Sure you don’t.”

He shoves her right back. “Fuck off.”

“Never,” she says, sticking her tongue out at him.

(Fair, though; he wouldn’t actually want her to.)

He leans back on his hands, taking in the people around him. It’s almost time for practice to properly start, so now there’s a lot of them. Most of them are fairly scrawny-looking (is it just him or do the freshmen look exceptionally young this year?) and still seeming kind of out of place. Surely not for long, though. He gives it a week (and that’s if he’s being generous) before they all break out of their shells and become obnoxious shits.

“Oh,” Eva says, sounding pleased with herself, “I think that’s him.”

Isak follows the direction of her gaze, and he’s about to ask her how she can be so sure that a complete stranger is the senior transfer they’re looking for (the senior transfer _she’s_ looking for, he reminds himself, because he’s not looking at all, because that would be ridiculous), but then he catches sight of the person she’s looking at, and the question dies in the back of his throat.

He’s never seen this guy before, but it’s immediately obvious he can’t be a freshman. He’s too self-assured in the way he’s leaning against the wall with a thumb hooked in the pocket of his basketball shorts, the pencil tucked behind his ear and the yellow-tinted aviators hooked casually on the collar of his shirt. Even though he’s not talking to anyone, he looks like he doesn’t _need_ to be talking to anyone.

(Isak can’t help but envy him for that a little.)

Another thing that distinguishes him from the hapless fourteen year olds around him - he’s tall. Absurdly tall, if the length of his ridiculous legs are anything to go by, and carrying himself with a kind of quirky charisma Isak can’t imagine a freshman possessing. He’s got bright green earbuds stuck in his ears, his head bobbing up and down to whatever he’s listening to and the fingertips of his other hand tapping a frenetic rhythm against the side of his leg. The sleeves of his tie-dyed shirt are rolled up all the way to his shoulders, exposing the pale skin of his upper arms, and bright magenta socks stretch halfway up his shins. A yellow sweatband pushes his gelled hair back, and Isak can’t even mock him inside his head for that (seriously, why would you even try that hard, he’s going to be sweating all that product out of his hair before lunch, Isak can almost guarantee it) because everything else about him is so ridiculous. Literally everything about what he’s wearing clashes. He looks like someone stuck together a bunch of parts they thought looked good on their own and expected the result to look like a person, with no sense of what an actual person looks like.

Ridiculous. He should look utterly fucking ridiculous.

(The most ridiculous thing is that he doesn’t.)

“Goddamn,” Eva says approvingly. “Them calves, though.”

Isak swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, which for some reason suddenly feels very dry. He swallows. “Do you know what he plays?”

And that’s when he notices.

The strap around his neck. The reed he’s sucking on between his lips. The clunky case leaning against the wall next to him. Isak’s entire heart sinks, even in the midst of pounding itself out of his chest.

He turns his gaze back to Eva, ignoring the stupid riot in his chest.

“Fuck,” Isak says. “You didn’t tell me he was a _saxophone_.”

She blinks. “I didn’t know? And why are you saying that like it’s a bad thing?”

“Uh, because saxophones are objectively the worst?” Isak starts listing reasons on his fingers. “They’re loud and they’re obnoxious and they think they’re better than everyone else and there’s _so fucking many of them_.”

Eva stares at him.

“You do realize that’s what everyone else thinks about trumpets,” she says.

“What?” Isak says indignantly. “No, they don’t.”

“Also,” Eva says, breezing past what Isak just said in typical Eva-fashion, “you’re stereotyping. Honestly, you’d think you’d know by now. Don’t generalize sections, dude.”

“It’s not a stereotype if it’s objective fact,” Isak says. “Are we friends with any sax players?”

“Whatever,” Eva says, which Isak is definitely taking as a sign that he’s right. “You don’t know anything about him. Or any of the rookies, really.”

“That’s fine by me,” Isak says, shrugging.

Eva snorts. “Okay, sure, but it’s the first day of band camp,” she says. “ A lot can happen in a season.”

Isak glances back over at the new senior. He’s not sure what compels him to do so. The same impulse that makes you pay attention to a car wreck, maybe. But this time when he looks over, the guy looks back.

It’s brief. Just enough time for the guy’s eyes to widen, and for the corner of his mouth to twitch up slowly.

More than enough time for Isak. He looks away. Did he imagine that? Did that dude just _smile_ at him?

(Were his eyes really that blue?)

“Sure,” Isak says. “If you say so.”

Sana calls them to attention, then, and as Isak finds his way back to his section, he lets his nerves over how the morning is going to go wash over him. No room inside him to think of anything else, really. There’s too much else to worry about, things that are far more important than new boys with irritatingly blue eyes and terrible fashion sense. He needs every ounce of his focus to make sure this first day of band camp isn’t a complete failure.

(Not that it’s not going to suck anyway, because band camp always sucks. But if the rookies end the day not hating themselves or band itself, he can call it a day. They can hate him all they want, but no fourteen year old deserves to feel bad about being new to marching band. No matter how annoying they’ll end up being.)

The morning is kind of what Isak imagines hell would be like, but he already expected that. The first basics block of the season is always terrible. Obviously, it’s necessary, because how else are the rookies supposed to know how to march correctly, how to carry their instruments and basically not come across as completely uncoordinated idiots? But it’s also slow moving as hell. Sana’s got them at a snail’s pace, beating the metronome at a tempo that surely bores even her, and the freshmen are so goddamn _timid_. Elbows close to their sides, mumbling the counting to their own feet. He doesn’t yell at them, doesn’t think that would really help, but god, how’s he supposed to get them to actually put their hearts into this?

Not to mention it’s unbelievably hot, and only getting warmer by the second. His hair already feels gross and itchy, his throat dry like fucking sandpaper. It’s goddamn oppressive, is what this weather is, the kind of god awful heat that clouds your thinking, almost makes you forget your own name. The kind of heat that makes you wonder why you signed up for a thing that subjects you to it for hours every day in the first place.

(Of course, that’s a useless train of thought. He’d have to be a goddamn fool to give marching band up, for anything.)

Still, by the time the first water break rolls around, Isak’s already wishing a little for death (only a little). He doesn’t bother trying to talk to anyone - mouth’s too dry - just makes his way to the sideline and reaches for his water bottle, not planning on letting it go for a long while. Jonas has his stuff set up next to Isak’s, so when he comes near Isak gives him a quick fist bump as he brings his water up to his mouth, but that’s about the best he can do right now. Jonas just smiles and shakes his head at him. He doesn’t need to say anything. Jonas knows all Isak wants to do is complain about the heat, and Isak knows all Jonas wants to do is make fun of him for it. Who needs to say something like that out loud?

Finally, after enough water has poured down his throat for him to feel halfway human again, Isak straightens and grins at Jonas. “Hey, man, glad to see you actually made it on time.”

Jonas punches him on the shoulder. “You probably got here an hour early, knowing you.”

Isak shrugs. “Maybe. Maybe I got here two hours early.”

“Somehow, that wouldn’t surprise me?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Isak says, rolling his eyes. “How’re the trombones this year?”

“Think we’re looking good,” Jonas says with a thoughtful nod. “We’re up a couple from last year, thank god, since we only had one senior last year and a good number of rookies this time round. How’s it going with the trumpets?”

Isak is about to answer with something generic (“good,” is what his brain helpfully supplies) just as he catches a blur of colorful motion out of the corner of his eye. Instinctively, he turns toward the source of it. And stares.

It’s the senior sax whose name Isak still doesn’t know, laughing loudly at something someone said and reaching for a water bottle in the process. Isak watches him throw his head back, carelessly pouring water into his mouth. Small streams of water trickle out of the corner of his lips, over the line of his jaw and down below the collar of his shirt, but he doesn’t seem to care. _Of course he doesn’t_ , Isak thinks hazily, before realizing just how dumb that thought is. He doesn’t even know the guy, let alone well enough to apply words like ‘of course’ to him.

In one smooth, easy motion, he straightens and squeezes the water bottle over his head. It soaks his hair, the careful styling ruined just as Isak thought it would be, but he doesn’t seem to care about that either, just shakes his head like a dog and sends water droplets flying everywhere. Some still cling to his skin - his temples, the backs of his hands, the planes of his cheekbones. Crawling slowly downward the side of his neck with the force of gravity. Soaking into his clothing. Disappearing below the collar of his shirt.

He runs his tongue over the drops on his upper lip, a quick and thoughtless motion, and laughs again, eyes crinkling and his entire body shaking with the force of it, and Isak’s too far to hear, but he can imagine the sound of it all too well.

His throat is dry again.

And then the boy’s eyes catch on his, still alight with a smile, and Isak’s heart tumbles down to his toes.

“Wait, is _that_ the senior Eva was going on about?”

Isak tears his gaze away from whatever the hell just happened and back toward Jonas, who is actually openly gawking. Is this just going to be a thing with all his bi friends, this drooling over some random senior saxophone player?

“Christ, she got to you too,” Isak groans. “How did she get to you? You weren’t even _here_ earlier.”

“She does this thing where she texts me about hot people,” Jonas says with a shrug. “I can see why, though, goddamn.”

“He’s a _saxophone_ ,” Isak says irritably. “Don’t know why we need to give a shit about him.”

“Eh. He’s not really my type, anyway.” Jonas looks over at Isak and smiles. “I know someone else whose type he is, though.”

“Don’t you dare,” Isak warns.

Jonas shrugs again. Thankfully, he knows when to back off. It’s one of his many redeeming qualities, which Isak tries to appreciate even when he’s being a little shit.

“I was going to say Magnus,” he says instead of what Isak _knows_ he was thinking.

“Everyone is Magnus’s type,” Isak says, unimpressed.

“Yeah, well, exactly.” Jonas puts down his water bottle and picks up his trombone. “Ready for the rest of the day?”

Isak hoists up his trumpet and does not glance back at a single saxophone player in existence.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says.

The rest of the morning passes without incident, thankfully. By the end of it, his rookies are starting to get the hang of the basics, which he considers a small victory. He’s immensely glad to return to the band room for lunch, though. Anywhere with air conditioning sounds like heaven right about now. As far as lunch goes, he didn’t pack anything too fancy - lunch is more often than not his responsibility these days, but all he could find in the pantry today was bread, peanut butter, a half-empty box of granola bars, and a bunch of overripe bananas - but Eva slides over her yogurt cup (“Strawberry is the _worst_ flavor,” she says with a grimace) and Jonas lets him have the rest of his chips. He takes their offerings wordlessly and moves on with the conversation.

(He’s learned long ago not to protest.)

By the time lunch is almost over, Mahdi and Magnus are in the band room in time for afternoon sectionals, and Isak resents how not sweaty they both look. Still, it’s good to see them, and he greets them with high fives and minimal snark. He’s in a - not a _good_ mood, per se, because when is he ever, but an okay one at least, when he goes into the locker room behind the band room to get his trumpet for sectionals.

And stops in his tracks.

“Um, excuse me,” Isak says. Fuck, does his voice really need to come out like _that_? He sounds like he’s fucking ten or something. “Can I get to my locker?”

The senior saxophone, crouching right around where Isak’s locker is, straightens. The door to the locker under Isak’s is wide open, and he can just make out the outline of a sax case inside it.

He has just enough time to think, _oh, fuck_ , before the senior sax runs a hand through his hair and says, a little sheepishly, “Shit, am I in your way?” His voice is insanely deep, which irritates Isak to no end. Of fucking course puberty would treat him _that_ well.

Isak nods. “Looks like I’m right above you,” he says with a weak smile.

“Ah, sorry,” the saxophone says, hooking his instrument to the strap around his neck and stepping aside. “Looks like we’ll be dealing with that a lot this year, huh?”

Isak steps up to his locker, trying not to frown. He’s not exactly acting the way Isak expected.

(Though frankly, what did Isak expect? He doesn’t really know.)

“I’ll try not to get too pissy about it,” Isak promises over his shoulder. “Not your fault you got stuck with the shittiest spot.”

The sax player laughs. Something not entirely unpleasant trembles down Isak’s spine at the sound of it.

(The reality of it.)

“I’m glad you get it,” the guy says, pressing a hand dramatically to his chest. “You a senior too?”

“Nah, junior,” Isak answers as he tugs the lock to his locker open. “Isak Valtersen. Trumpet player.”

“I know, I saw,” the guy says. Isak turns around to look at him, and his eyes are bright with a new smile. “Even Bech Næsheim, tenor sax.”

“Even,” Isak echoes. Bech Næsheim? Isn’t that a Norwegian name?

“Yeah, that’s my name, glad you remember it,” Even says, smile growing wider.

Isak rolls his eyes before he remembers that’s not generally a polite response to make when you’re talking to someone for the first time. “Just making sure I know what to say the next time your ass is blocking my locker.”

Shit, Isak thinks, should he really have mentioned Even’s ass of all things, but Even doesn’t seem to notice, just laughs again. “I appreciate your efforts,” Even says.

“Thanks,” Isak says, dropping into a bow. “I appreciate your shirt. It’s cool as shit.”

“Oh, do you?” Even says, sounding pleased. He takes hold of the hem and stretches his shirt out in front of him, still looking kind of wet from the earlier water break. “I did the dye job myself. Pan pride colors.”

Isak blinks at him. “Pan pride colors?”

“Yeah,” Even beams. “Blue, yellow, and pink.”

“Oh,” Isak says, unsure what he’s supposed to say. “It’s, uh. Good. Good combo.”

Even nods, still smiling.

“So…” Isak pulls his trumpet case out of his locker, setting it down at his feet. “You transferred here your senior year, huh?”

“Nah, I’m actually a double agent for my old school,” Even says gravely. “I’m here to get all your marching band secrets so we can beat the shit out of you during competition season.”

Isak huffs out a laugh, despite himself. “Yeah? What’s your cover story?”

Before Even can answer, Sana’s voice rings out from the direction of the band room - “Hey, sectionals are starting now!”

Isak sighs, picking up his trumpet. Just as things were starting to get interesting.

“See you in sectionals, I guess?” he says. “Or around, or something.”

“Yeah, Isak,” Even says. “See you around.”

For a moment - the briefest of moments - something flickers in his eyes. Something warm and bright.

It’s gone before Isak can name it.

He brings his saxophone to his mouth, and licks the reed on his mouthpiece. He says, “Reed was getting a little dry,” and _winks_.

And he leaves the locker room.

And Isak stares.

“Christ,” he says out loud.

(And his heart is beating loudly in his chest.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes:
> 
> -A mellophone is the marching band version of a French horn and looks like [this](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/9/9c/Yamaha_Mellophone_YMP-204MS.tiff/lossy-page1-1200px-Yamaha_Mellophone_YMP-204MS.tiff.jpg).
> 
> -Noora didn't make it into this part, but she plays flute in marching band and oboe in concert band [you can't march on oboes or bassoons, so people who play those instruments often learn others so they can march]. Sana is the drum major, and she also plays clarinet because I had to give my favorite my own instrument, sorry not sorry. Balloon squad do not appear in this fic, but they're all on drumline.
> 
> -I never figured out what the name of this high school is but I did amuse myself with the idea of their mascot being the Vikings.
> 
> And that's all I've got for now! <3


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So there it is. On the last day of band camp, the band’s almost through with putting the first movement of their halftime show on the field, his rookie trumpets are actually friends with each other and maybe even with him (does he dare hope?), and Isak still hasn’t had an actual conversation with Even Bech Næsheim.
> 
> (And he noticed; why did he notice?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, friends! If it wasn't obvious from the updated chapter count on this fic, I've finally, finally been able to do enough work on this fic to return to it! Y'all have no idea how happy this makes me, this verse is so dear to my heart. So yes! Somehow this fic now has six chapters plus an epilogue??? I'm pretty much done with the entire thing aside from editing and will be posting chapters as I finish the editing process. While I cannot promise an update schedule, chapters should take no longer than a week to be released.
> 
> The summary has been updated, as have the endnotes of the first chapter for relevancy's sake.
> 
> All of my love to [Crystal](http://pronouncingitwang.tumblr.com) and [Allie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rumpelsnorcack/pseuds/rumpelsnorcack) for beta reading the new chapters of this fic. I hope the rest of y'all enjoy this silliness as much as I've enjoyed writing it!

_II._

Even somehow manages to get to their lockers before Isak does almost every morning of band camp, the whole two weeks. The frustrating thing is, Isak wants to be pissed at him for it. He really does. After all, Even’s always in his way, so there’s always that moment of awkwardness where Isak has to ask him to move, and it never fails to leave the back of his neck prickling with discomfort. What’s worse, Even never actually leaves during those moments like any self-respecting person would do. But he doesn’t talk either a lot of the time, which would be the next logical solution. He just leans against the lockers on the other side, and stares.

It’s unnerving, to say the least.

(But Isak’s _not_ pissed about it, which is the most unnerving thing of all.)

There’s just - there’s something. Isak doesn’t know what it is, doesn’t even know where to begin when it comes to finding a name for it, but it’s there. Maybe he’s the only one who feels the awkwardness, because Even never seems like he does. He always apologizes when Isak asks him to move, always shoves his hands in his pocket and smiles the same genuine smile that makes Isak want to reassess his original (admittedly hasty) judgment of him as a cocky bastard. But he never comes across as embarrassed, or like he doesn’t want to be there. 

He just _is_.

The thing is, though, Isak can’t actually reassess the enigma that is Even Bech Næsheim, and that’s mostly because they haven’t yet said more than ten words to each other at a time. All he has to go off of are looks and body language. Fucking _body language._

Not that he has time to look for anything else. There are so many other things to worry about than some weird guy who’s not even in his section.

(Yet here he is, worrying anyway. In his defense, his shit ass brain worries about a lot of things it shouldn’t. At least this isn’t anything new.)

So there it is. On the last day of band camp, the band’s almost through with putting the first movement of their halftime show on the field, his rookie trumpets are actually friends with each other and maybe even with him (does he dare hope?), and Isak still hasn’t had an actual conversation with Even Bech Næsheim.

(And he noticed; why did he notice?)

He makes the mistake of admitting this to Eva in the car on the way to school. By accident, to be sure, because as they’re bitching about various people who are guaranteed to make the season a trying time (Eva’s currently ranting about a clumsy mellophone who almost stepped on her horn yesterday in front of their lockers; Isak already waxed poetic about some wannabe freshman in his section who keeps insisting he’s going to get the solo in the next movement which, not to be dramatic, but Isak would rather die and face the wrath of a thousand hells before he let that happen) Isak mutters without thinking, “At least you actually talk to your locker mate.” Accident or not, though, Eva pounces on the weakness immediately.

“Do you mean Even?” Eva says. “Are you talking about Even?”

Eva’s lucky she’s driving, otherwise Isak would absolutely shove his hand in her face in retaliation. As it is, all he can do is groan.

“Why do you always assume I’m talking about _Even_?” he says. “I don’t even know the guy.”

“Uh, because you’re always talking about Even?” Eva says. She lowers her voice in what he assumes is supposed to be an impression of him (it’s a really shitty impression, for the record). “Oh, Even the sax player, he’s so _annoying_ , he’s always in the way, always playing his instrument so annoyingly _well_ with his gorgeous mouth and his stupidly gorgeous hands. Oh, I never know what to say to him, his eyes are just so _blue_ and so _piercing_ that every time he looks at me I forget what the English language is.”

“I have never said any of that in my entire life,” Isak says, miffed.

“I’m paraphrasing,” Eva says with a sly grin. “Seriously, he comes up all the time, which is just sad considering you haven’t even talked to him yet. Which you literally said two seconds ago, just so you know.”

“Yeah, thanks for reminding me,” Isak says. He sighs. “I don’t know, like, I know what to think about everyone else in this band, right? My section is pretty okay, aside from the freshman fuckboy who’s got his head up his ass. You’ve got that dude in your section who doesn’t know his left foot from his right, but he’s not a complete tool which is more than can be said for, like, ninety percent of the band. Brass is the best, woodwinds are the worst. Drum line is… drum line.”

“Uh huh,” Eva says, shooting him a look that probably means something along the lines of, _you’ve put_ way _too much thought into this_. But otherwise she doesn’t try to interrupt him, which he can at least appreciate.

“Your girlfriend is probably not gonna be my first go-to for a conversation, honestly,” Isak continues, “but she’s sweet and well-meaning and that’s what counts. Chris is cool now that she’s not making bedroom eyes at me all the time. Noora’s a complete overachiever and I both admire and fear her. Sana is a badass. So are you. I’d probably die for Jonas and the boys.”

“Yeah, I know,” Eva says. He knows she does. “So?”

“So,” Isak says, “I don’t know what to think about Even.”

As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets it. It’s probably the stupidest thing he’s ever said. Why does he care if he doesn’t know? 

(Or more importantly, what does it look like to someone else that he cares enough to say something about it?)

Thing is, their marching band is pretty small, compared to the powerhouses in their district with over two hundred people. Small enough, at least, that you end up learning everyone’s names and what they’re like just by virtue of being in the same place as them for so much time. You know who you want to be friends with, and who isn’t worth even an iota of your attention. It’s been two weeks, and he’s got them all pegged.

Except for Even.

(Surely, then, it’s not that strange he noticed.

Surely.)

“Hm,” Eva says. “Does that bother you?”

Isak frowns. “Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Then _talk_ to him, idiot,” Eva says, giving him one of her _looks_. This one is probably meant to punctuate the “idiot” part of her statement. “Seriously, how are you supposed to know if you don’t figure it out?”

He turns his face to the window, looking for something else to focus on other than the boring road ahead of them, but the trees are moving by too fast to be anything but a meaningless blur. “You make it sound so easy.”

“Yeah, okay, I know,” Eva says, “words are hard, talking to people is hard. But, you know. For what it’s worth, you kind of sound like you want to try.”

“You’re only saying that because you still want to set us up,” Isak accuses.

“Hey,” Eva says. “I said I’d back off, yeah? The thought clearly makes you uncomfortable.”

He blinks at her.

“And like,” she continues, oblivious to the way she just gently rocked his world, “I know we’re high schoolers and melodrama’s kind of our whole schtick, but - it doesn’t have to be dramatic, you know? It can just be, you being nice to the guy you have to run into at your lockers every day. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Isak echoes.

“If you do end up talking to him, though,” Eva says, “I bet you twenty dollars by the end of the season you’ll be shoving your tongue down his throat.”

“Fuck, I don’t want your traitor money,” Isak shouts, and this time he does shove at her shoulder, and she just laughs at him, and laughs.

After they get to school and Eva abandons him for her girlfriend, he makes his way to the locker room and pokes his head inside. Sure enough, Even’s there, kneeling at his locker and rummaging through it for something. His earbuds are in. He’s humming under his breath, soft and absent-minded, though Isak can’t quite tell what the melody is. He clears his throat.

Even turns his head toward him, pulling an earbud out of one ear and bursting into a bright grin. “Good morning,” he says. “Need me to get out of your way?”

That’s the kind of smile Isak would expect someone to direct toward a close friend, someone they’d known for years. He laughs weakly. “Nah, you can take your time. Eva’s always getting on my ass for being so uptight. Tells me I need to chill out. So here’s me trying to chill out. By not making you get out of my way first thing in the morning.”

Some part of his brain is panicking slightly over the number of words pouring out of his mouth right now. He’s not really sure what’s helping him ignore it.

Maybe it has something to do with how Even seems to be taking him seriously. Is actually nodding thoughtfully as he says, “Huh.”

“Is it working?” Isak says, raising his eyebrows. “Am I, like, the most chill?”

The corner of Even’s mouth twitches upward. “You tell me.”

Isak groans. “No, that means I’m not.”

Even shrugs, straightening. He sticks a reed into his mouth. “You know, for what it’s worth,” he says, words a little garbled as he talks around the reed, “I think it’s fine not to be the most chill. You can’t force yourself to be something you’re not, you know? Might as well embrace it.”

Isak swallows. 

For god’s sake, the guy’s sucking on a fucking piece of wood. That should be the least sexy thing in the world.

( _Is_. Is the least sexy thing in the world.)

“Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

“Yeah?” Even says, eyebrows shooting up like that wasn’t the answer he expected.

“Yeah, sixteen years of pretending you’re straight will do that,” Isak says, as casually as he can.

Even takes the reed out of his mouth (not that Isak notices, because he is definitely, definitely not looking at it) and laughs. “Right on,” he says. “Same here. Well, fifteen for me, but. Same difference.”

Isak nods. He is the absolute picture of nonchalance.

Even grimaces, then, and reaches into his pocket for his iPod. “God, I hate this song,” he says, thumbing the skip button.

Isak raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You know, if you don’t like a song you can always, like, delete it.”

Even shakes his head. “I’m borrowing my sister’s iPod,” he says. “Dropped mine into a swimming pool.”

That surprises a snort out of Isak. He’s not sure what’s stupider, the story or the matter-of-fact delivery. Yeah, just completely destroyed my whole music library the other day, no big deal. “Wow, nice going, dude.”

Even smiles, no malice in the line of his mouth. “And don’t I know it,” he says. “Seriously, though, she has the worst music taste.”

“What do you listen to?” Isak asks, curious despite himself.

“Eighties pop,” Even says without skipping a beat.

“ _Really_?”

Even quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“You,” Isak says, “are in no position to be criticizing anyone’s music.”

Even lets out a laugh. “Yeah? What do _you_ listen to, then?”

Isak shrugs. “I don’t know. Nineties rap, mostly, I guess.”

“Oh, so you’re one of _those_ ,” Even says with a sage nod.

“One of those?” Isak repeats. He can actually feel himself smiling. Dear god, why is he _smiling_?

“Yeah,” Even says. “You walk around in your snapbacks and your bro tanks listening to nineties rap just to feel like a badass.” He’s smiling, too, but actually letting himself smile, eyes crinkling in a way that softens his words, makes them sound kind rather than an insult. Isak can’t even bring himself to be mad.

“You’ve got me all figured out, then,” Isak says.

“Yeah, I’ve got you pinned down,” Even says, and now his voice is soft, and his eyes are softer. And it makes Isak kind of just stop in his tracks for a second, because he didn’t expect that, he didn’t expect it at all, and now his throat is dry again, the way it always seems to get around Even.

(He doesn’t know what to say.)

“Though, for the record,” Even says, “the snapback and bro tank look really suits you.”

He looks down, then, and Isak barely even has any time to process what’s been said before he looks back up, smiling a faint smile, and walks out of the room. Isak turns his head around as he goes, more out of instinct than actual conscious thought, but before he can figure out if he should say something back Jonas and Magnus walk into the locker room, quizzical expressions on their faces.

“That sax player sure was running out of here fast,” Jonas says. “What did you say to scare him off, Isak?”

Isak blinks.

“Nothing,” he says.

(Nothing at all.)

“He’s got the hots for you,” Magnus says. “I’m calling it now.”

Isak throws his hands up. “Why does everyone _say_ that?”

“Uh, because it’s true?” Magnus says, the _no, duh,_ written all over his stupid face. “Pan boy plus gay boy equals romance?”

“That’s not even - ” Isak sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Logic would be wasted on this guy. “I don’t even know him.”

“But you want to,” Jonas says, waggling his eyebrows up and down.

Isak rolls his eyes. “You guys are impossible.”

“Coming from you,” Magnus says, sticking his tongue out.

“It’s like talking to children, I swear,” Jonas says, shaking his head.

Magnus takes him by the shoulders and shakes him. “But you _are_ a child!”

Isak ignores this exchange, choosing instead to finally retrieve his trumpet from his locker. He can hear some asshole sax who thinks they’re hot shit playing some ridiculously fast runs in the main band room, over and over. Goddamn showoff.

“Who the fuck is that?” Magnus says, sounding intrigued. “It actually sounds really good?”

“Some asshole who can’t get over himself, probably,” Isak says, lifting up his trumpet case and beckoning the other two to follow him back into the band room. “Definitely doesn’t appreciate how hard marching band actually is.”

“Isak, you literally play one of the easiest instruments to march,” Jonas deadpans, to which Magnus crows, “Damn, he got you, there!” and okay, coming from two people in low brass, maybe he kind of deserved that.

In the middle of coming up with a brilliant comeback (probably something along the lines of, “your _face_ is an easy instrument to march”) Magnus shoves at Isak’s shoulder excitedly and says, “It’s Even!”

Isak’s gaze flickers across the room, and sure enough, Even’s leaning against the opposite wall, saxophone in his mouth and fingers flying across the keys. He’s transitioned into a different song, now, but Isak hardly even hears the notes because Even is looking right at him, and even though his mouth is around his mouthpiece, it’s obvious from the crinkles around his eyes that he’s smiling.

“Oh my god,” Magnus says delightedly, “is he playing _Careless Whisper_?”

It’s as if Isak had cotton in his ears and someone suddenly pulled them out. The notes wash over him, that fucking sax solo that haunts his dreams because every sax player in the world who thinks they’re funny always plays that stupid song before every stupid fucking rehearsal, but it doesn’t even sound as annoying as it usually does because Even’s instrument is a tenor sax and tenor saxes are just inherently less annoying than alto saxes, which in itself is annoying as shit. And not that Isak knows that much about what makes a good player for sections outside his own but even he can tell Even’s damn good for his age, and holy shit, he’s still fucking looking at him.

Even stops playing abruptly, pulling his saxophone out of his mouth, and grins at Isak. No shame. His lips move as if he’s saying something, and Isak can just make out the words.

 _Eighties pop_.

Isak rolls his eyes pointedly. Even’s grin doesn’t fade.

“Oh, he definitely has the hots for you,” Magnus says, but in this moment, not even a comment like that would be enough to make Isak look away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here is "[Careless Whisper](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izGwDsrQ1eQ)" by George Michael as referenced in this fic, and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iJB2Ni2yzGo) is a tenor sax cover of the solo at the beginning [ftr they're not actually that different, Isak is just dramatic as fuck].


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s hoping and praying, at least, that he’ll get a seat to himself. He’s going to fight tooth and nail for it, for sure.
> 
> Which is why, when he’s already set up near the back of the bus and far, far away from the underclassmen clusterfuck, and someone asks him, “Um, can I sit here?” he looks up, the _fuck off_ ready on the tip of his tongue.
> 
> It’s Even, looking down at him expectantly as if he already knows Isak is going to say yes.
> 
> Which, fuck him, Isak is going to say whatever he wants, and he opens his mouth to do just that, and he says, “Yeah, sure.”

_III._

The proper semester starts without much pomp and circumstance, mostly because Isak had to start going back to school weeks before classes actually started. Nothing like a good old-fashioned band camp to make coming back to school feel like old news.

He'd almost forgotten how grueling school and marching band were together. He’s not exactly sure how he managed that, mostly because it’s pretty much a defining feature of being a band kid. You basically run on fumes and pure adrenaline from late July to early November, before spending the rest of your year despondently waiting for the next marching band season to come again. But it’s probably at least in part because his schedule this year is especially killer. More than half his classes are AP, supposedly for college prep but mostly just because he wants the GPA boost. In fact, the only class he’s taking that _isn’t_ AP or honors level is concert band itself. It’s probably not one of his more prudent life choices, considering he doesn’t even get to start his homework until past eight most nights (once again, thanks, marching band, for making his life that much more of a pain in the ass), but what the fuck ever. Marching band hasn’t stopped him from kicking his grades in the ass before; why should it now?

So the first few weeks of school are a blur of after school rehearsals and studying and sleeping, with the occasional Wednesday afternoon (their only day off during the week, because of course there’s only one of them) spent smoking weed in Jonas’ basement and taking more naps. By the time the first football game of the year rolls around, Isak still isn’t quite sure how he got here.

Not that he has much time to process it today, either way. It’s an away game and the school they have to go to is pretty far away, too, so their call time is unusually early for a typical Friday night. Cue about a hundred high schoolers running around the band room like headless chickens, searching for missing uniform pieces and shoving food into their mouths (which will likely be their only dinner until past eleven). It’s almost kind of endearing to watch them all panic. Been there, done that, rookies. Give it another year and you’ll think it’s funny, too.

Of course, Isak is obligated to keep _his_ rookies somewhat calm, so he does so as best as he can. Directs them to load their instruments onto the band truck because there’s not going to be enough space on the bus. Checks their uniforms for them to make sure they’ve got everything. Shows them how to fold their jackets the right way. Honestly, he impresses himself. If he didn’t know any better he’d almost fool himself into thinking he had patience.

A few minutes before call time, Eva plops down next to him, her hair in a high bun on her head. “Hey, hold these for me, will you?” she says, dumping an assortment of bobby pins into Isak’s palm. He doesn’t protest, mostly because there wouldn’t be a point.

As Eva plucks pins from Isak’s hand to shove into her hair, he uses his other hand to tug the front zipper of his uniform pants up. Well, pants is a bit of a misnomer. They’re more like glorified overalls. Which seems like a theme for marching band, in general. Glorified shittiness.

(Honestly, he wouldn’t have it any other way.)

Isak frowns as the zipper gets stuck a few inches from the top. “God, have I ever mentioned how much I hate marching band uniforms?” he says.

Eva rolls her eyes. It’s almost part of her personality, at this point.

“Only every time we have to put them on,” she says.

“Seriously, though,” Isak plows on, determined to get in his bitching for the day. “These pants, especially. I mean, have you ever seen anyone who looks good in them? They basically render you into a shapeless blob.”

Eva slaps her hands over her hip bones. “They are pretty terrible for my waist,” she admits.

“Except for that fucker,” Isak sighs, gesturing with one hand toward Even, who’s currently talking to Sana near the front of the room. He’s leaning against the whiteboard, hands tucked behind his back and head tilted toward Sana, nodding seriously along with whatever it is she’s saying. It should be comical, the way he’s towering over her petite stature, but it’s not, weirdly. It’s (ridiculously, irritatingly) graceful, instead. Mostly because his long legs actually look (stupidly, annoyingly) good when clad in the marching band pants that look terrible on literally everyone else.

Eva follows Isak’s hand gesture, then looks back at him, a grin spreading slowly across her face. He doesn’t like the look of that.

“So you admit it,” she says.

He really doesn’t like the sound of that. “Admit what?”

“You’re gay for Even,” Eva says. Her grin turns absolutely shit-eating.

And his brain kind of short-circuits, a little.

“I’m not gay for Even,” Isak splutters. “I’m just _gay_.”

“Uh huh,” Eva says gleefully. “I bet you think his ass looks _great_ in uniform.”

“Oh my god,” Isak says, scandalized.

“Do you wanna suck his reed?” Eva says, waggling her eyebrows up and down. “Do you wanna blow on his horn?”

“Oh my _god_.”

“Do you want him to…” Here, she lowers her voice into a mock-conspiratorial whisper. “Lick your brass?”

“I’m sorry,” Isak says, feeling vaguely like he wants the floor to swallow him whole and throw him into whatever pit of hell is as far from this conversation as possible, “but we can no longer be friends.”

“That’s not denial!” Eva laughs.

“I hate you,” Isak says loudly. “I’m deleting you from my phone. I’m deleting you from _Facebook_.”

“No,” Eva gasps, slapping the back of her hand to her forehead and draping herself over Isak despite his protests, “not Facebook!”

“Get off me, you dick,” Isak grunts, trying in vain to push her off, but though he’d never admit it to Eva in a million years, it’s almost impossible to stop the stupidest smile from spreading across his face in this moment.

Not long after that, Sana calls them to attention. Even’s disappeared from the front of the room (not that Isak’s looking for Even, definitely not) and in his place is their director, who makes some long-winded speech about how they should take tonight’s half-time show seriously (when do they not?) before dismissing them to the buses. Isak heads to the back of the bus he’s assigned to. Usually, he and Jonas would be share seats, but for some horrible reason this year he was late to the sign ups and was forced to put his name under a different bus from all his friends. The bus holding pretty much all the freshmen, no less. He’s pretty sure at this point the universe actively hates him.

He’s hoping and praying, at least, that he’ll get a seat to himself. He’s going to fight tooth and nail for it, for sure.

Which is why, when he’s already set up near the back of the bus and far, far away from the underclassmen clusterfuck, and someone asks him, “Um, can I sit here?” he looks up, the _fuck off_ ready on the tip of his tongue.

It’s Even, looking down at him expectantly as if he already knows Isak is going to say yes.

Which, fuck him, Isak is going to say whatever he wants, and he opens his mouth to do just that, and he says, “Yeah, sure.”

Even breaks into a bright smile. “Thanks, Isak,” he says, the barest hint of relief in his voice (which, okay, fair; what senior wants to shack up with a freshman when he can saddle himself on the only other upperclassman on the bus instead?) and after that any chance Isak had of fighting against this is just gone. He squishes himself against the window as Even folds his lanky body into the seat, his warm thigh knocking against Isak’s in the process.

God, how the fuck did he get here?

( _It’s ‘cause you’re gay as hell_ , a voice that sounds suspiciously like Eva’s whispers in the back of his mind. He doesn’t even have room inside himself to dispute that right now.)

Immediately, Even digs through his bag and pulls out his iPod with a triumphant noise. It’s the same color of red as the last time Isak saw it, with the same scratched up Mickey Mouse sticker on the back. Still borrowing his sister’s, then. He untangles his earbuds and offers one to Isak. “Here,” he says in a voice that indicates Isak doesn’t really have a choice in the matter. Fine, not like Isak had any plans for this stupidly long bus ride anyway. He obligingly takes the earbud and sticks it in.

When Even presses the play button, Isak is expecting it to be something he’s never heard before (Even totally comes across as the kind of person who’d introduce someone he barely knows to some underground artist no one knows the name of) but it’s a Calvin Harris song from a couple years ago that all the radio stations played fucking nonstop. Admittedly, it’s pretty catchy, but still.

“You like pop from this decade too, huh,” Isak says, casting a dubious glance at Even.

The idiot’s already bobbing his head up and down to the beat, long knobby fingers tapping against his knee. Humming absently, almost like he’s not thinking about it, like this is just something he does. “I like pop from most decades,” he says breezily.

Isak snorts. “What’s so shitty about your sister’s music taste, then?”

Even makes a face. “She likes super pretentious indie rock by white guys singing about some probably perfectly nice girl who broke their hearts,” he says. “It’s unoriginal and lowkey misogynistic and it all sounds the _same_.”

“Hate to break it to you, but you’re a white guy, too,” Isak says, more amused than he should be. “And doesn’t pop music also kind of all sound the same?”

Even gasps. “Isak! I will not have you besmirching the good name of pop music! Think of the children!”

Isak can’t help but snort at that. “What children?”

“You’re going to corrupt the innocent youth,” Even says, making a sweeping gesture at the bus around them.

“Yeah, besmirching the good name of pop music is totally what’s going to corrupt the freshmen,” Isak says. “Nothing else.”

“Yup,” Even says, very seriously. “You get it.”

Isak raises an eyebrow. “Do I?”

“Of course you do,” Even says, and here he looks at Isak out of the corner of his eye, and smiles.

Isak glances away.

(It’s stupid, but he almost wants to believe the words mean something else.)

“So, uh,” he says, “how do you like it here? At this school, I mean.”

Even is quiet for a moment. Isak can hear him singing the words to the song under his breath, the syllables just barely audible. _When everything’s wrong, you make it right…_

Then, he lets out a small laugh, easy, relaxed. “It’s good,” he says. “Kind of weird that I’m only gonna spend a year here, but it’d be like that anywhere else, I guess.”

Isak nods, willing down the awkwardness that threatens to trap his words in his chest. There are gaps Even’s talking around in his carefree tone, but if he’s not touching them it’s probably not a good idea to point them out. “In and out, huh? That’s you.”

( _That’s what she said_ , his brain supplies helpfully.

He throws his middle finger up at it.)

“Yeah,” Even says softly, and the sentence doesn’t sound like an innuendo anymore, but something else entirely. “That’s me.”

Here’s the awkwardness again, a persistent itch in his lungs. Isak coughs. “I think that’s for the best, anyway. I wish I had only one more year left in this shithole.”

“Public high school really is awful wherever you go, isn’t it?” Even muses. “I don’t think I’ve walked into a single bathroom here that doesn’t smell like weed.”

“Or piss,” Isak adds. “Or both. And have you seen the graffiti? Could teen boys be any less creative?”

Even rubs his eyes. “If I have to see the wall calling me a gay slur when I’m trying to pee one more time…”

Isak winces sympathetically. He knows the type intimately well. “It’ll be better in college, though,” he says. “I’m sure there’s a percentage of your tuition that goes specifically into making sure public restrooms smell nice.”

It’s a common enough thing to say to seniors. A safe one, even, an expected topic of conversation when the person you’re talking to is going to head off to college soon. A reminder that no matter how shit high school may be, it’ll be worth it, because college will be better.

(He wasn’t lying when he said he wished he only had one more year left. More accurately, he wishes he had no time left at all. Admittedly, the thought of what comes after is scary as hell, and the one thing he doesn’t want to leave behind is this marching band - _his_ marching band, he often catches himself thinking - but honestly, he would do anything to get out of this awful town.

This awful school.

His awful house.)

So he figures this time around, it’ll be safe to bring up. He spends so much time wondering what the right thing to say is, it’s nice that small talk has its own conventions you can turn to as a last resort.

Even shrugs. “I guess,” he says. “I’m not going to college, though.”

Isak stares at him. For a second, he’s not even sure he’s heard him right. That sentence? That very idea?

(Almost unthinkable to him.)

“What,” he says, very intelligently.

“I mean,” Even says with an abashed laugh, “I will eventually, I think. But I want to take some time off first. Maybe take a gap year or two?”

That sounds a lot more reasonable, somehow. Still, from the day Isak entered high school, he’s only really seen one trajectory for himself - survive high school, go to the best college he can get into, and make bank. The idea of taking a break that long (and how would he spend it? At _home_?) is enough to make him feel twitchy.

“Hm, Isak says with what he hopes comes across as a thoughtful nod. “What would you do with a gap year or two?”

“I’d travel the world,” Even says without hesitation, which sounds like a pretty stereotypical answer. “And I’d make a story about it.”

Which doesn’t.

Isak feels his eyes widen. “Do you write?”

“Oh, no, no, no,” Even says, shaking his head vigorously. “I don’t have the patience.” He smiles sheepishly at Isak. “But I have, like, all these ideas and images in my mind? Just, whirling around in there all the time? Like, sometimes I’m doing or seeing something and music just pops in my head, and I’m like, if my life was a movie, this is what it would sound like. Or this is where the credits start rolling, or where it all begins. That’s really what I want to do, you know? Make movies that are stories. And I don’t know, I think it would be really cool to make all those ideas and thoughts real, one day. Or, at least,” he amends with a self-deprecating sigh, “to try to make them real.”

“So you _are_ a storyteller,” Isak says, and there’s no way he could mask the awe in his voice. There just isn’t.

“I don’t know,” Even says, looking down at his hands. “I’ve never told a story that mattered.”

(Isak is almost certain everything Even’s ever said matters, but that seems a tiny bit dramatic to admit out loud.)

“You will,” Isak says instead.

Even pauses. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Isak says with a sage nod. “Even if you tell it to just one person, it’ll matter.”

Even smiles crookedly. “Maybe I’ll tell it to you.”

To that, Isak is helpless to do anything but smile back.

Even leans his head back, eyes directed toward the ceiling of the bus. “Or maybe I’ll steal a satellite,” he says. “Broadcast my vision to the whole entire world. Hey, wouldn’t that be awesome? It’d be some Big Brother shit but, like, not dystopian.”

“How could it be like Big Brother but not dystopian?” Isak says skeptically. “Isn’t that the opposite of the point?”

“Isak!” Even says with a dramatic gasp. He reaches out and takes hold of Isak’s shoulders, shaking them vigorously. “Don’t kill my dreams!”

Even’s body is very warm against his. Isak’s kind of annoyed that he notices this first, when everything else about this situation is stupid and horrible and the worst.

“How can I kill your dreams when they’re so dumb in the first place?” he manages to choke out, grabbing hold of Even’s wrist in an attempt to stabilize himself.

Even lets go of him very suddenly, which in itself is disorienting. “Rude,” he says, but when Isak dares to glance over at him he’s still smiling.

That’s how they spend most of the bus ride, mostly just being stupid as hell. It’s a longer bus ride than usual, about forty five minutes, but when they pull to a halt in the rival school’s parking lot, he hasn’t thought about the freshmen on the bus once.

(Isak tries not to read too much into the fact that Even doesn’t touch him again, not even accidentally.)

There’s a lot to think about when they get there, anyway. Trumpet rookies to round up, instruments to haul off the truck, missing gloves belonging to panicking freshmen to replace. Honestly, they’re lucky he knew this was going to happen. He bought three extra pairs from the band parents just for their forgetful asses.

Sana rounds them up to the stands. Isak stands at the end of his row so he can see what his section is up to. Eva’s standing behind him as she always does, even if it means pushing the mellophone section leader out of the way. After everything settles down and the game starts and they play their fight song, she pokes the back of his neck.

“So,” Eva says. “How was the bus ride? I saw you get off with Mr. Legs over there.”

Isak refuses to look where she’s pointing. He just point blank refuses.

“Mr. Legs?” he says. “Seriously?”

“It’s a code name,” Eva says cheerfully. “So you can thirst over him in public without people knowing.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now? I’m not gonna - ” Isak breaks off with a long-suffering sigh. “You’re impossible.”

“Like, I’m not gonna try to set you up, but I never said I’d leave you alone now that you have a crush,” Eva says, poking his cheek this time.

Isak throws his hands up. “I don’t have a fucking crush!”

She pats him on the shoulder. “Whatever helps you sleep better at night, dude.”

Isak turns around to glare at Eva. “I hate that I don’t even have anything against you right now. You and your disgustingly healthy monogamous relationship.”

“Yeah, my girlfriend’s pretty awesome,” Eva says, taking the opportunity to blow a kiss in the direction of the color guard several rows below them.

Isak rolls his eyes. “Not what I said, but fine.”

Sana gestures for them to play one of their stands tunes, then, so he turns around and pays attention. The Hey Song, this time around. Right after they finish that their team scores a touchdown, so it’s straight into their fight song. Predictably, as soon as they put their horns down Eva is right back to bothering him.

“I don’t know why you have so much trouble admitting it, anyway,” she says. “He’s hot, he’s a great musician, he’s funny. As far as band geeks go, it’s like, the perfect package.”

“Because there’s nothing to admit,” Isak insists. “And - and feelings are dumb, anyway. Look, we spend literally all our time either doing band shit or studying our asses off. Who has the _time_ for feelings?”

“I do,” Eva sniffs. “And besides, I’m not asking you to do anything about it. Just, like, talk about it some. Be honest with yourself, you know? It’s not good to keep it all bottled up.”

“There’s nothing to keep bottled up,” Isak mutters, but as much as he hates to admit it he knows she has a point there.

The thing is, if he says it out loud, there’s no avoiding it anymore. Saying it out loud will make it real in a way he’s not sure he’s ready for.

(And who knows what other people would say in response?)

“Okay, fine,” Eva says. “But there’s nothing wrong with admitting a boy is cute, just saying.”

“Why do you keep pushing it, Eva?” Isak groans. “Does it make you happy to harass me like this? Does it?”

Eva purses her lips. “Sorry, if it really makes you uncomfortable I’ll stop. It’s just…” She shrugs. “You’ve never talked about boys you think are cute, Isak, even when you came out. And, I don’t know. You should be able to talk about cute boys if you want. That’s all.”

Before he can think of an answer to that (and where the hell would he even start?), Sana gestures for yet another stands tune. Seven Nations Army, followed by a cadence by the drum line. It’s easy to lose himself in the music, easy to let the notes he’d memorized weeks before fill his thoughts and let the question of what it would actually mean to talk about cute boys fade away. He needs to concentrate, anyway, needs to think about this when so much is happening. There’s another touchdown, another round of the fight song. The sousaphones start doing a jaunty little tune some time after that, what the band collectively calls the “Oompa Loompa song”, and Isak looks up at Magnus, face turning red as he tries to keep up with the rest of the sousas. Ah, Magnus. Tries so hard and gets so far.

By now, after a few stands tunes to loosen up he’s finally starting to feel the energy of the game, the buzz of excited band kids around him. And they have the right to be, don’t they? Tonight’s going to be their first real show in front of an audience. Even if the home crowd doesn’t pay attention, it’s still an actual performance, their first chance to show the world what they’re made of.

Plus, they’re at a football game. He’s never been that enthusiastic about the sport, but admittedly the games are a lot more fun than he thought they’d be back when he was a freshman. As the band, they’re always kind of sectioned off from the rest of the crowd, which suits him just fine. All around him are kids talking and laughing and joking, and for a moment, it makes him feel, strangely, at home. Like there’s no place he’d rather be.

A few rows below him, he can see Even. Not that he’s hard to spot, considering how he towers above pretty much everyone else in his row. He’s got his head turned to the side, light of the dying sun setting the outline of his face in sharp profile and casting shadows across his cheekbones. He’s laughing at something the person next to him said and his whole body is shaking with it, Isak can see that even from up here, and the now-familiar way the corners of his eyes crinkle, and the particular curve of his mouth when he smiles. A curl of his hair has fallen into his forehead, trembling a little as he laughs, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

(Isak does.)

There’s a tightness in his throat, sudden as it is irritating as it is inevitable. He swallows.

“Okay,” he says. “So maybe he is kind of cute.”

He turns around. Eva’s staring at him, her eyes almost bugging out of her head. “Um, excuse me? _Kind_ _of_?”

“So maybe he’s kind of really cute,” Isak admits. “But - what would I even do about it? He’s just - so - ”

He falters, the gravity of his words sinking in.

Even is so Even. That’s what he was about to say. And Isak is so Isak. And he doesn’t know how to say that out loud in a way that won’t sound stupid as hell, but in his brain it makes too much sense. In his brain that’s already all the reason he needs to know why this wouldn’t work, even if he wanted it to, which in itself is a scary thing to think.

Even if Even wanted it to, which honestly is even scarier to think about.

(Terrifying as hell to admit to himself that he might want that, too.)

Eva opens her mouth, presumably to answer, but before she can someone nudges him in the arm. One of his rookies. “Wait, Isak,” she says, frowning. “You’re gay?”

He gapes at her. “Uh - ”

She elbows the person next to her. “Isak’s gay,” she whispers loudly, as if the revelation suddenly explains everything about him.

He turns toward at Eva, who’s staring back at him with wide eyes, as if she knows what he’s thinking. She probably does; after all, he’s so fucking transparent, isn’t he?

“Isak,” she says, “I - ”

“Forget it,” he mutters, laying his trumpet down on the bench behind him. “I’m going to the bathroom.”

Predictably, the only toilets available on the visitors’ side of the field are porta-potties. Otherwise he’d have to get a band parent to walk him all the way over to the other side, and run into even more people - complete strangers. Fuck that, for real. He’ll take his chances with the sketchy fake toilets.

He locks himself in one of the stalls. It smells like ass in here, literally, but at least it’s somewhat quiet. The game’s still audible from where he’s standing, but that’s fine, that’s a low roar he can tune out. And at least there’s no one here.

Sometimes, it’s not that easy being surrounded by so many people all the time. Their band isn’t big, but it’s big enough. A little over a hundred people. That’s a little over a hundred people who know his name, who he is and what he plays and how he talks. So many people who all have their own judgments of him, just like he has his own judgments of them. It’s exhausting to think about, sometimes. Exhausting to spend almost every waking minute wondering what they _really_ think of him.

(But he can’t stop. He just can’t.)

He looks down at his hands. He’s been openly gay since the beginning of the year, or at least, that’s when he stopped trying to actively hide it. It’s easier, nowadays, easier to think that to himself and be okay with it. Easier to say it out loud, and not lose the pace of his breathing. His school isn’t the kind of place where kids normally get beat up for being gay, and besides, he’s had his friends (most of whom are queer themselves, which has admittedly made a pretty big difference) behind him for ages. Fuck what anyone else thinks, right? So long as he has that?

He has it lucky. He knows he does.

He has it lucky, so he feels weird about feeling weird about it sometimes. But sometimes it’s overwhelming to think about, releasing this into the world. This part of himself that people can do whatever they want with. They can make assumptions about him, they can say whatever they want about him. And when you’re out in high school, they do. It’s how other people talk about you, that’s just a fact. “Oh yeah, that’s Isak, he’s a junior trumpet player and did you know he’s gay?” It almost feels out of his hands, now.

And it’s not like he can go up to all of them and be like, so here’s what you think you know about gay people, and here’s what you think you know about me, and here’s who I actually am. It’s not possible.

(There’s too fucking many of them.)

He rakes his hands through his hair agitatedly. God, this is fucking stupid. Wallowing in a porta-potty has to be a new low for him. He squirts some hand sanitizer on his hands, zips his pants back up, and reaches for the latch.

The door won’t open.

He frowns at the lock, jiggling it slightly. It’s stuck, somehow. He pushes at it with more force, slams the heel of his hand into it. Nothing. He throws his shoulder against the door. Still, nothing.

Okay, scratch that. Getting stuck in a porta-potty while wallowing in self-pity is definitely the lowest of the low.

“Shit,” he says, and he can’t ignore the way his voice wobbles on the word. His chest is doing that thing again, the same feeling he gets when things aren’t going the way he expected or wanted them to. The same feeling he gets when he stands in front of a classroom of people before a presentation and can’t get his palms to stop sweating. The same feeling he gets when he walks into his house after marching band practice. It’s tight and hot and almost painful, and for a moment he almost forgets how to breathe.

His phone. He has that on him. Ugly as they are, the pants do have breast pockets, which is where he usually keeps it. He roots around for it, hands trembling so badly he almost drops it in the damp gross soil beneath his feet, but he doesn’t. He switches it on with his thumb and stares. It’s about five minutes until their scheduled warm up time.

“Fuck,” he says, the word clawing itself out of his throat. He hits his forehead with the edge of the phone once, twice, hard; enough to jar him back into reality, enough to remind himself what he needs to do. He opens his texting app, goes straight for the group chat he’s in with Eva and Jonas. It takes him a few tries to steady his thumbs enough to type, but thankfully auto-correct ensures his messages are at least somewhat coherent.

**Isak Valtersen  
** _You can make fun of me for this later but I’m stuck in a porta-potty can you please get a band parent to come help get me out i might be late to warm up_

**Eva Kviig Mohn  
** _OMG what?!?!?!?!_

**Isak Valtersen  
** _The lock is jammed or something just please help me_

**Jonas Noah Vasquez  
** _Coming ASAP_

He exhales, long and low. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine.

Fine. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fucking fine.

Fine -

It’s fine -

He’s _fine_ -

The door crashes open.

He blinks, squinting at the sudden light. Eva and Jonas? That was faster than he even expected. He steps out. He blinks again, the silhouette in front of him (how did that even happen? The lock on the door is wrecked, did they bust it open with their shoulders or something?) comes into focus.

It’s Even, looking down at him.

Isak stares, sudden horror rising up in his lungs and his throat, threatening to drown him. There’s going to be laughter, and jokes at his expense, and he can’t handle that, not right now.

(Not from Even.)

Even takes careful hold of his shoulders, gentle, a barely there touch. As if ready to pull away at the smallest indication that he shouldn’t.

“Hey,” he says. “Are you okay?”

 _Yeah, I’m fine_ , Isak tries to say, but when his mouth opens nothing comes out. He just stares.

Even doesn’t laugh. Even stares back, serious and concerned and soft in a way Isak can’t make sense of.

For a long moment, the entire world feels like it’s holding its breath.

“Isak!”

Instinctively, Isak steps back, out of Even’s reach, and twists his head around. Eva and Jonas are rushing toward him, a band parent on tow.

“Oh, thank god you got out,” Eva says, bringing a hand to her forehead, “we’re just about getting ready to leave the stands for warm-up.”

Isak glances over at Even. “I - ” He exhales. “Thanks.”

Only now does Even break out into a smile, more relieved than anything else. “Of course,” he says quietly. He brings his hand up to Isak’s shoulder again, and squeezes.

It’s very brief, and before Isak knows it Even’s hand has already dropped back down to his side. The band parent is ushering them back to the stands now, and it takes only a few strides for Even to put some distance between them.

Isak bites his lip, hard. He knows Eva and Jonas are looking at him; he can feel them staring. But thankfully they know better than to say anything now, though he imagines all the group chats they’re in will be flooded with the news later. They’re never going to let him live this down, honestly. He’ll be haunted by this until he fucking graduates.

“Come on, dude,” Jonas says, slapping Isak on the shoulder, around the place where Even touched it. “It’s almost time for the show.”

Isak nods, once, and takes in a deep breath. And another.

And another.

It’s fine.

(He’s fine.)

He looks ahead of him at Even, the back of his head, the slope of his shoulders. Takes in another breath. Tears his gaze away, and looks at Jonas with a smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “Time for the show.”

Miracle upon miracles; his voice does not shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Fun fact: the getting stuck in a porta-potty incident is semi-autobiographical, except in my case i was saved not by the love of my life but a very disgruntled band parent. It was very harrowing.
> 
> -The song Even and Isak listen to on the bus is "[I Need Your Love ft. Ellie Goulding](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AtKZKl7Bgu0)" by Calvin Harris.
> 
> -[An example](http://dshowcase.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/10/UN_16_Ultra-Bibbers-Black-Front.jpg) of the ultra fashionable marching band pants [we actually called them bibbers but I decided against using the term to avoid confusion].
> 
> -For stands tunes, I referenced the most widely used ones I could think of. A fight song is basically like the school's theme song?? I'm not sure how to explain but you typically play it when your team scores points or important moments like that. Here are some examples i found on youtube in case you're curious as to what they sound like: "[The Hey Song](https://youtu.be/xhK4mi5WRxM)", "[Seven Nations Army](https://youtu.be/6RTK0KFvsfc)", [a drumline cadence](https://youtu.be/RNy7nzaGR1o), and [a fight song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TUdk-aqKdBs) [in the video you can also sort of see how a drum major leads the band through the tune and their full uniforms]. i couldn't find a good example of what i was thinking of wrt the oompa loompa song, but in my band it wasn't actually the song from the Willy Wonka movie; it just got the nickname because the rest of the band would [attempt to] go up and down to simulate oompa loompa dance moves. [2/18/18 - updated links that will hopefully work for non-US readers! Most of the old links were to more polished recordings but some of these new vids might give a better idea of what a marching band at a football game kinda sounds like??]
> 
> -typing all of this out is making me appreciate how completely dorky marching band is wow.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallows, hard. “Why did you transfer here, Even?”
> 
> It’s been a while since the bus passed a street lamp. In the darkness, Isak doesn’t miss the way Even’s breath hitches. The smallest noise he’s ever heard Even make.
> 
> “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to,” Isak says.
> 
> (He hopes the darkness makes him sound honest.)
> 
> “I believe you,” Even says, simply.

_IV._

At the game two weeks later, the marching band pretty much falls apart during their halftime performance, Sana only just barely managing to carry them through the second movement so they can actually finish the show.

Isak feels it as soon as he gets off the field. They all know that they messed up. Usually after a halftime run, they’re buzzing with energy, adrenaline from the pressure of putting on a performance taking its sweet time to burn away. Usually after a halftime run people are laughing and talking excitedly about the things that went well. Right now, there’s nothing but silence.

He spends most of the rest of the game dreading what comes after, because there’s no way the director is letting them go home without talking about this. And he can already imagine all too well the kinds of things he might say; none of them fill him with much confidence.

There’s a small part of him that hopes the football game will be enough to buoy their spirits at least a little. If they could play some of their more exciting stands tunes, if they could get in some rounds of their fight song. But the entire rest of the game passes without their school scoring a single touchdown, and they lose in a brutal landslide to the opposing team.

(It’s just salt in the wound, at this point.)

And Isak was right. After they load the truck and before they board the buses for home, their director gathers them around him.

“Never again do I want to hear the tempo of this show rip apart this badly,” he says. He’s not visibly angry, and his voice is calm; but the disappointment in his eyes is clear, and somehow that’s worse than hot rage. “Our performances are numbered, everyone. We only get so many chances to practice before competitions start. So we’re going to double down during sectionals. Woodwinds need to clean up those runs, you’re too exposed at the end of the opener. Brassline, you’re so far back for so much of this, you _need_ to make sure you’re going with what you see and not what you hear. And trumpets…” Here, he sighs. “The ballad depends on you playing together when everyone turns to the front. We all need to do better, guys.”

Isak feels the words like someone kicked him in the heart. He feels cold all over, ice filling his insides from head to toe. And sick to his stomach, his guts twisting and squeezing themselves inside out. And hot, simultaneously; hot with shame, the feeling of it burning in his throat.

Out of the entire band, his section specifically was singled out for not being good enough. This is the kind of thing that’ll keep him up tonight, his thoughts chasing themselves in endless circles. His section wasn’t good enough, and he’s the section leader. There’s only one conclusion to be drawn from this.

(He wasn’t good enough.)

After the director finishes speaking, someone puts a hand on his shoulder. He turns around. It’s Jonas, quiet concern in his eyes.

“Isak, are you - ”

There’s static in his ears, a dull roar. He blinks, wondering faintly when things will start to feel real again.

“Fine,” Isak says, shrugging Jonas off. He can’t stand that right now, the idea of talking. He walks away toward the buses. Jonas lets him go, probably because he knows how useless it is to try to make Isak stay.

Other than that, he barely remembers anything else that happens. The next thing he’s aware of, he’s sitting on the bus, forehead pressed to the cold glass of the window.

Warmth presses against his side. He straightens, turns his head. Even stares back at him steadily, white lights from outside painting haphazard stripes across his face.

Something nudges against his elbow. He looks down. Even’s offering him an earbud.

Isak swallows thickly. “No, thanks,” he says, turning to the window.

Even doesn’t say anything back, which is fine by Isak. The bus starts up, the rumbling knocking Isak’s face violently against the window, but he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to. It’s uncharacteristically quiet around them, strange for the freshmen but perhaps not really after everything that happened tonight. Isak’s not much for school pride, but with the taste of their own failures lingering in the back of his throat, even he felt the blow of tonight’s loss.

After a few minutes, the way his skull is constantly jolting against the side of the bus gets too strong for him to ignore. He straightens again, turning back toward Even. Head swinging from side to side to whatever he’s listening to on his iPod, cramped knees pressed against the back of the bus seat. Honestly the whole world could be falling apart, and there Even would be, listening to his shitty pop music and having the time of his goddamn life.

(Isak doesn’t fucking doubt it.)

“How do you do it?” Isak says.

Dimly in the back of his mind, he thinks maybe now isn’t the best time to say the first thing that pops into his head, not when he can feel himself falling into the place that turns all his thoughts to poison. But it’s a faint thought, so it’s easy to ignore.

Even turns toward him, raising an eyebrow.

“Like a minute ago the director chewed us out for sucking ass, tonight’s just been awful in every way, and you look - ” Isak exhales sharply. “You look like you couldn’t care less.”

Even looks surprised to hear that. “Do I?”

“It’s how you always look,” Isak says. “Like - like you just don’t give a shit. With your earbuds in and your shitty eighties pop and your - your everything.”

Part of him is screaming at him to stop talking, just stop talking; because even as he says it, he knows it isn’t true.

But his head is pounding with white noise, and his thoughts are spinning too fast for him to catch, let alone try to make them into words that are fair. There’s a hurt in his chest, dark and ugly and endlessly, endlessly vast; so vast he can’t put it into words, either.

All he knows is that if he held it inside himself, it would burn him to ashes.

(Is this really much better, though? To burn the world around him instead?)

God, it’s fucking frustrating that Isak can’t just make all the chaos in his head go away. It’s so messy in there, everything is so goddamn messy. He’s painfully aware of how stupid every word sounds as soon as it leaves his mouth, his heart thudding in his chest in time to his own idiocy.

(He’s painfully aware that this is how his words always sound when it comes to Even.)

“That’s - ” Even takes in a shaky breath. “That’s not true.”

That takes Isak aback, a little. The softness of his words, the vulnerability. This crack in Even’s infectiously energetic aura. He hardly knows what to do in the face of it.

“I’m sorry,” Isak says, faltering. “I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay.” Even bites his lip. “But… is that really how you see me?”

Isak frowns. “I…”

“Because I think I care way too much,” Even says. “About pretty much everything.”

The bus is driving along some backroad, now, away from the streetlights. Isak can just barely make out the outline of Even’s face in the darkness. The smudged shadows of it.

“What do you care about?” Isak says.

Silence, for a moment. They’re sitting close enough that Isak knows Even’s stopped moving to whatever music he’s listened to.

(Despite himself, despite everything, Isak finds himself aching in the stillness.)

“I care about the fact that I stepped off on the wrong foot after our first halt,” Even says finally. “And I didn’t play my runs cleanly enough, and I forgot to point my horn to the box at the end of the ballad. So I fucked up too, and I fucked up a lot.”

He leans his head back, face toward the bus ceiling.

“I care about the fact that no one seemed to notice Sana looked like she was going to cry after the director said everything he did about our performance,” he says. “So no one’s going to ask her if she feels okay about what happened tonight, but she’ll probably think she has to pretend she is.”

The bus turns right. White light slices across Even’s face, illuminating its edges for the briefest of moments before turning to darkness again.

“I care about what the director said about the trumpets,” Even says, voice barely above a whisper, words hard to pick out over the noise of the bus. “And that when you heard it, the first thing you probably thought is that it was your fault.”

Isak’s heart just about stops in his chest.

“I don’t…” They pass by another streetlight. Isak struggles to keep his expression neutral. “How did you know?”

“I could see it on your face,” Even says.

(Implying he was paying attention to Isak’s face.)

“And it’s just the kind of person you are, Isak,” he continues, quietly.

(Implying he was paying attention this whole time.)

Another streetlight goes by, and this time Isak sees it. A smile on the corner of his lips. Faint, but unmistakable. Isak doesn’t have a fucking clue what to do with it.

“And what kind of person is that?” he says, forcing the words past the sudden lump in his throat.

Even chews his lip as if in thought. “The way you’re always looking after the people in your section, in ways no one else would think of,” he says slowly. “But it’s not loud. You don’t call attention to yourself. It’s like you feel like they’re your responsibility. Nothing more, nothing less.” He turns his head, gaze sliding toward Isak slowly, unhurried. A flash of light; his smile hasn’t yet disappeared. “You’re the kind of person who would take that very seriously.”

For what feels like the thousandth time tonight, Isak is at an utter loss for words. He’s never felt quite at ease whenever people tell him who they think he is. It always makes him feel weirdly exposed, as if put on display for judgment. And that’s how he feels now, too, except it’s different. It’s worse, because it’s Even judging him.

(And if it’s Even judging him, that means it actually matters.)

Isak shakes his head, a desperate attempt to return to his senses.

“I guess, yeah,” he says, letting out a laugh he doesn’t really feel. “I probably take band so seriously because I’m an idiot.”

Even doesn’t look away. His gaze becomes serious and thoughtful, a certain kind of intensity Isak finds nigh on unbearable.

But, as always, he can’t find it in himself to look away, either.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Isak,” Even says. “I think you’re someone I admire a lot for that. For taking other people seriously.”

He says it so calmly, so casually. As if it’s a simple truth. As if it’s easy.

(As if it’s easy to hear Even admires him.)

“It _was_ my fault, though,” Isak says. “I should have - ” His voice cracks. He tries again. “I should have done better.”

Even nods, considering.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

Isak frowns, unsure where that question is going, but he nods.

Even leans in, mouth close to Isak’s ear. His breath is a ghost against his skin.

“I think you did the best you could.”

Isak feels frozen at the words, stuck in time and space. Like in this second, nothing exists except for the way Even’s voice sounds when he says that.

There’s a weight to his words. A certain kind of feeling attached to it. Like it’s something he heard once, long ago. Like it’s something he wants to convince himself of.

Isak feels it because he knows that’s what he sounds like half the time.

(Constantly trying to convince himself of his own words.)

He swallows, hard. “Why did you transfer here, Even?”

It’s been a while since the bus passed a street lamp. In the darkness, Isak doesn’t miss the way Even’s breath hitches. The smallest noise he’s ever heard Even make.

“I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to,” Isak says.

(He hopes the darkness makes him sound honest.)

“I believe you,” Even says, simply.

There’s silence for a long while. Isak gets the sense Even’s taking the time to gather his thoughts. And honestly, he deserves it. He deserves all the time in the world.

Even inhales, a big breath. Then, he speaks.

“I’m bipolar,” Even says. “That’s not the reason, not all of it, anyway, but I just wanted you to know that.”

Isak nods slowly, not quite trusting himself to say anything in this moment. He can feel how much this must mean to Even, how important it is that he doesn’t respond in the wrong way. Instead of trying, he listens.

“I get these - episodes. Manic episodes, and depressive episodes. The depressive episodes came pretty often last year.”

Even’s words are halting, his voice hesitant. The way Isak’s heart lurches to hear him sound like that physically hurts.

But he seems to find his courage, then, as he takes in another breath and his shoulders settle. “I had a few really bad episodes, toward the end of last year. Did really badly in a lot of my classes. Couldn’t even finish the semester.”

A long pause.

“So my parents let me come here,” Even says. “Because I didn’t want to go back to a school where everyone knew that about me. Knew that I’d failed so badly.”

“Even,” Isak says, heart in his throat, “I - ”

It’s as if Even knows what Isak is about to say. “I overworked myself,” he cuts in. “I pushed myself and I made it bad for myself. If I’d taken better care of myself, if I’d taken my meds on time, if I’d taken therapy more seriously, if I’d been more conscientious of it all, I wouldn’t have - ” Even breaks off with a harsh exhale. He balls his hand into a fist, presses it into his forehead as he turns away. “It wouldn’t have happened like that.”

The pace of Even’s breathing, now, is ragged. Isak counts the breaths he takes, almost by instinct. They sound so loud in the dark.

“Do you think it’s my fault, Isak?” Even whispers, but somehow, that feels loud, too.

It’s that, of all things, that loosens the vice around Isak’s lungs, lets the words inside him burst forth like from a broken dam.

“No,” Isak says fiercely, so fiercely it honestly surprises him how strongly he feels about this. “No, it’s - the system, and your school for not supporting you. It’s, it’s, it’s - ” He feels so strongly it makes the words hard to come out. He grasps wildly for them. “It’s all this bullshit about doing well in school to get into a good college, and it’s so much fucking pressure, it’s goddamn _suffocating_.”

The sound of Even’s swallow is audible.

“But I left,” he says. “I could have stayed, and I left instead.”

“I mean…” Isak forces himself to slow down for a moment, really consider what Even just said. “I think I get it, though. Did you feel like you were losing control?”

Even is still, for a long moment.

“Maybe,” he says. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“I hate that, too,” Isak says. “Not having any control over how people see me. Everyone has their own version of me inside their head, and there’s nothing I can do about it. It drives me up the fucking wall.”

He doesn’t know that he’s ever said anything like that out loud, to anyone. Not even to Jonas. Not even to Eva.

He gets why he said it now, though. There’s something about the dark that makes it feel okay to say it out loud.

(There’s something about Even that makes it feel okay, too.)

Slowly, Even turns his head back toward Isak. In that moment, the bus turns onto a well-lit street, neon shop signs glowing by the side of the road. The yellow light makes Even’s eyes look soft.

He tilts his head, then, and before Isak knows it it’s resting on his shoulder.

“I’d let you give me the version of you you’d want in my head, if I could,” Even says. “I know that’s not much, but it counts for something, right?”

(It might be the warm, solid weight of Even’s head on his shoulder. It might be the steadiness in his voice. Isak can’t say for sure. All he knows is that right now, he feels steady inside himself, too.)

“I don’t think I would, actually,” Isak says.

“Hm?”

“I don’t think I’d change the version of me you have.”

Even hums tunelessly. Isak feels the vibration of it against his side. “No?”

_I think I like the way you see me,_ Isak almost says, but it scares him to think it. Scares him that those words are the first to come to mind.

(Even in the darkness, some things still feel too big to hold inside himself.)

“Sounds like it’d be too much work,” Isak says instead. “I’m too lazy.”

Isak feels Even’s laughter more than he hears it.

“That’s okay,” Even says. “I’m honored, anyway. That you trust me with this version of you.”

“I thought you were a double agent, Even,” Isak says. “Can I trust you with anything?”

Even takes hold of Isak’s hand, sweaty palm covering his knuckles. It’s a careful gesture, probably meant to be reassuring.

(It is.)

“You can,” Even says. “I promise, you can.”

And in this moment, Isak is incapable of doing anything except believe in him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -it occurred to me while answering comments for the last chapter that it might be kind of difficult to envision what a show looks like, especially since i don't really go into too many of the details in this fic, so if you're curious i found [an example](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ndBxQwW9Lw) of a school competing at Bands of America Grand Nationals, which is like the highest level of competition [that i know of at least] for high school marching bands [keeping in mind that this band won that year's competition and so is probably not entirely representative of, like, your typical hs band lol but it should at least give a good idea of the length of the show, the movements, the formations, what the show entails, etc. etc.].


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It occurs to Isak that he might not have been the only one to notice they’re the only ones left. He swipes his tongue over his teeth. “Sorry, I was just - I was just about to call my dad for a ride. I usually get one from Eva, but…”
> 
> Even nods once, considering. He turns his face back toward his locker. Then back toward Isak, tilted smile hanging on the corner of his lips. It’s an expression Isak feels like he should be used to at this point, he’s seen it so many times in such a short timespan. Somehow, he doesn’t think he is.
> 
> (Somehow it still takes his breath away.)
> 
> “I could give you a ride,” Even says. “If you want.”

_V._

Saturday practices are kind of the bane of Isak’s existence. Sacrificing nine hours (sometimes twelve, because their director is a sadist) of your weekend to marching under the sun (still scorching even in the middle of September, because the weather probably has a personal vendetta against him for all the times he flipped it off) surrounded by people you already spend half your waking moments with? He can’t imagine that’s anyone’s idea of a good time. Unfortunately, as October approaches, Saturday practices are pretty much an inevitable staple of his weekends now, and he can’t even hope for them to be over quickly, because once October comes and replaces them with competitions, he’s going to wish things could be this easy again.

This one comes with its usual dose of pain and suffering (mostly in the form of the relentless heat, as per usual), but at least it’s productive. By the time six PM rolls around, they’ve even managed to put the last of their halftime show’s final movement on the field. It’s rough as hell, obviously, rookies missing cues and people apparently not knowing how to make a straight fucking line in front of the back sideline, but the trumpets have been playing strongly all day, so Isak’s still feeling a bit of a euphoric buzz on the way back to the band room. The boys are next to him, their huge instruments hoisted on their shoulders as they laugh at each other’s dumb jokes, and even Isak, the band’s own grump extraordinaire, can’t keep a grin from stretching across his face.

“God,” Mahdi groans, shifting his baritone horn from one shoulder to the other. “Tonight I’m getting in the shower and I’m never getting out.”

“Dude, don’t do that,” Magnus says, poking him in the side and almost dropping his sousaphone in the process. To be fair, with how big the thing is compared to how strong Magnus is not, he’s pretty much always almost dropping it. “You’ll drown, and I actually like having you around, okay?”

“A shower?” Jonas snorts. “A bubble bath’s how you do it right, motherfuckers.”

Isak rolls his eyes. “Wow, what are you, twelve?”

Jonas shoves at his shoulder. “Hey, now. One is never too old to have a bubble bath.”

Magnus scratches his head. “Hey, that’s a pretty good philosophy.”

“I might try it, honestly,” Mahdi says. “Sitting is so much better than standing in, like, every way?”

Isak shakes his head, but before he can reply his phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, reads the notification.

**Eva Kviig Mohn**  
_Hey, i’m really really sorry to do this to you last minute but Vilde needs a lift home, her mom is sick_  
_Can you get a ride from someone else?? I’m so sorry :( :( :( i’ll make it up to you i promise!!!_

Isak understands why Eva wouldn’t want him third-wheeling in the back of her car while she went the opposite direction of Vilde’s house to drop him off. He doesn’t understand why Eva feels the need to apologize so much. Of course she should spend time with her girlfriend; it would be entirely unfair of him to expect her to prioritize him first.

Regardless, it should be easy getting a ride from one of the boys. He looks up from his phone. “Hey, could I snag a ride from one of you guys?”

Immediately, Mahdi looks apologetic. “I’ve got to pick up my sisters from their own practices after this, and I don’t know that I have enough room in my car for an extra person. Sorry, bro.”

“Yeah, technically I’m grounded right now?” Magnus says, because of course he is. “Not allowed to hang out with any friends outside of band practice.”

That leaves Jonas, who doesn’t even have a car. Still, he shrugs. “I’m going to Pit Chris’s party tonight,” he says. “You could come too, if you want. I know she’d love to have you there. You could crash at my place after that?”

It’s a tempting offer, and even if Jonas won’t give it in anything but the most casual of tones Isak recognizes the generosity of it. But Isak knows his parents would never in a million years give permission, especially not so last minute. They expect him home at a certain time; it’s as simple as that.

Jonas probably already knows that, or he can at least read some of Isak’s thought processes in his expression. He claps him on the shoulder sympathetically. “Sorry, Isak.”

Isak swallows. “It’s okay. I’ll just… ask my dad.”

He can feel Jonas’ eyes on him at that, but thankfully he doesn’t push it. The conversation’s already moved on - Mahdi saying, “You don’t have to call her Pit Chris anymore, you know, dickface Chris already graduated,” followed by Magnus’s exclamation, “But it’s iconic!” - and Isak shoves his phone back into his pocket, and tries not to look too upset about it.

(He’s not sure how well he succeeds at that.)

At his locker, with the rest of the boys packing up elsewhere, it’s even harder to pretend he isn’t bummed out. Honestly, though, this is a ridiculous thing to be worked up over. It’s just a ride from his father. His own father, for fuck’s sake. It’s not that big of a deal.

(It’s really, really not.)

He shoves his trumpet in his locker, slamming the lock shut. He pulls out his phone, taps on his dad’s contact page, and stares at the screen.

It’s not that big of a deal, he repeats silently. In fact, it’s probably one of the easiest things he’ll have to do today.

(It is.)

“Valtersen!” someone calls out.

He spins around on his heel. Pit Chris is standing behind him, spinning a taped drumstick in one hand and saluting him with the other. Usually he hates being called by his last name, but Chris is one of the only people who actually pronounces it right without his prompting, so he lets it slide in her case.

“You coming to the party tonight?” she asks, raising her eyebrows.

He smiles weakly. “Can’t,” he says. “Lots of homework.”

“Too bad.” She sniffs, rubbing at her nose. “You know, you work too hard, my dude. You should take it easy every now and then.”

He shrugs. A party actually does sound kind of appealing right about now, and since it’s Chris she’ll almost certainly have alcohol on hand (she’s pretty much the only person in his grade he knows who would, though no one quite knows how; if asked, she’ll usually just make jazz hands and say, “Magic”), but this isn’t worth fighting his parents over.

“Next time,” he says.

Chris grins. “I’m holdin’ you to that, kiddo.”

And with one last wave of her hand, she’s left the locker room.

He casts a glance around him. Looks like he’s the last one here. He looks back at the phone in his hand.

Just one phone call. That’s all he needs to do. Just one phone call.

His father will pick up. He will.

And if (when) he does, he won’t ask Isak why he waited so long to call. He won’t ask why he couldn’t have asked one of his friends for a ride, or remind him the time to get his own license is way overdue. He won’t tell Isak he’s wasting his time.

He’ll just come.

“Isak?”

Isak blinks. That sounds like -

Even.

Slowly, Isak turns, and there he is. One hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding his sax case. He’s not wearing a headband today, and his hair has lost a lot of its lift, but the way it flops into his forehead has its own sort of charm, regardless.

(Somehow, he always seems to find a way to keep that.)

“Hey,” Even says with a bright smile. “You okay?”

“I - yeah.” Isak looks down at his shoes. “Do you need to - ”

“If you’re done?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Isak steps out of the way as Even bends down to reach his locker. His phone suddenly feels slippery in his grip. He tucks it in his pocket for safekeeping.

For some reason, the emptiness of the locker room around them seems more obvious than ever. He’s closer to Even than it feels like he should be, but inching backwards would look too conspicuous, so he stays where he is. Close enough that he can’t miss a thing Even’s doing, the way he’s biting his lower lip and frowning slightly as his thin fingers spin his lock, the little huff of air he exhales when it opens. He slides his saxophone in and straightens, joints cracking slightly, his pale knees poking out from under the fabric of his basketball shorts. It’s silent in the room. No one is talking. No one is laughing.

It’s silent, aside from the sound of Isak’s own breathing.

Even turns his head to look at Isak. “Seriously, do you need something?”

It occurs to Isak that he might not have been the only one to notice they’re the only ones left. He swipes his tongue over his teeth. “Sorry, I was just - I was just about to call my dad for a ride. I usually get one from Eva, but…”

Even nods once, considering. He turns his face back toward his locker. Then back toward Isak, tilted smile hanging on the corner of his lips. It’s an expression Isak feels like he should be used to at this point, he’s seen it so many times in such a short timespan. Somehow, he doesn’t think he is.

(Somehow it still takes his breath away.)

“I could give you a ride,” Even says. “If you want.”

Isak blinks. “Are you sure?”

“I don’t have anywhere I need to be after this, so yeah, I’m sure.” Even bends down again to swing his locker door shut. “Could you show me the way?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s pretty easy, actually, about ten, fifteen minutes from here? I’ll tell you where to turn.”

Even plunges his hands back into his pockets, bursting into a grin when he pulls his keys out. Isak wonders if he reacts like that to every small thing he accomplishes. Does he fist pump to himself when he flosses his teeth? Make a small, pleased noise in the back of his throat when he takes out the trash?

“Sounds great, Isak,” he says. “Shall we?”

Isak hoists his bag up on his shoulder, trying not to look too relieved.

(Or too freaked out at the prospect of being in Even’s car with him, completely and totally alone.)

“Yeah, let’s go,” he says.

Even leads the way to the parking lot, spinning his keys around his finger and humming under his breath. Isak thinks he should be used to that too, the way Even always seems to have music playing in the background of his life. What song does he hear now, as they walk towards his car? A jaunty little tune, bright and sunny just like he is? Something more mellow, to match the slowly setting sun?

(Maybe he hears nothing at all.)

Even’s car, as it turns out, is a small, compact thing, an older model but otherwise in good shape. It’s a bright red color, one that would stand out even if there were other cars around it. “This was also passed down to me by my sister,” Even says as he unlocks the doors. “Red’s her favorite color, if it wasn’t obvious.”

A lot of people Isak knows would be at least somewhat bitter at having to inherit things from older siblings rather than getting them brand new, but Even doesn’t seem to mind at all. He’s still humming after they’ve climbed into the car, pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing in a number.

Isak wishes he could avoid listening to Even’s conversation, but it’s pretty much impossible when they’re in such close quarters. As it is, he has to fight back his surprise when Even starts speaking in fluent Norwegian.

“ _Yeah, practice was all right. Long, but we got a lot done. Is it okay if I’m home a little late? A friend needed a ride._ ”

(He has to fight it back even harder, to hear Even call him his friend.)

“ _Thanks, mom. I love you, too._ ” Even hangs up and turns on the engine. “All right, take me away, captain.”

Once they’re on the right road, Isak hazards a proper glance at Even. He plugged his iPod into the aux cable before they started driving, and now his fingers are tapping incessantly against the wheel to the music playing, his head bobbing slightly up and down. Predictable. Isak turns toward the window, and allows himself a small smile.

“Your dialect,” Isak says. “Are your parents from Oslo?”

“Yeah, actually.” Even sounds pleased, oddly. “How’d you know?”

“So are mine,” Isak says. “Your Norwegian’s, um, really good.”

Even laughs. “You sound so surprised. I’m pretty sure you already knew I was Norwegian, Isak. And don’t you have Norwegian friends?”

“Yeah, but I mean…” Isak purses his lips. “Eva’s family moved here when she was a baby. Most everyone else I know who’s Norwegian was born here. So, uh… I don’t actually know anyone else my age who speaks it that well.”

Even hums in consideration. “And you weren’t born here?”

“Nah, we moved to the states when I was seven.” Isak rests his forehead against the cool glass of the window. “My dad’s workplace transferred him here. You know, I don’t even have my citizenship yet? Just my green card. My parents still have to take the test.”

“Damn, I sympathize. American bureaucracy’s the fucking worst.” Even pauses. “Does it bother you?”

Isak snorts. “What, American bureaucracy?”

“I mean, that’s just a given, right?” Isak turns back to look at Even, whose eyes are on the road. Still, he’s smiling; it’s unmistakable, right there on the corner of his mouth, like it always is. “Nah, I meant - does it bother you that your friends don’t know Norwegian?”

Isak has to laugh at that. “Of course not. I don’t know, it always felt like - Norwegian at home, English at school, yeah? And you mostly see your friends at school. No, it doesn’t bother me.”

They’re speaking in English, now, too. But neither of them point that out, because that’s just the way it goes.

“I think…” Isak bites his lip, chewing on his words. “I think when I was a kid, maybe it did, a little. Not that we couldn’t speak Norwegian together, but more… Like, I used to have an accent, right? Which was fine, but kids notice that kind of thing when you get older. Like by the time I got to middle school it was pretty much gone, but then there were certain words I picked up from my parents without realizing. So when I said something like them and it didn’t sound right, the other kids would laugh.”

He knows, now, that it wasn’t really about being Norwegian, but more about sounding different. Sounding wrong. Kids at his school had this way of picking up on any way you stood out. They could be weirdly indiscriminate, in one twisted sense at least. Still, he used to wonder what it was like to grow up like Eva, to speak English practically from the womb. Eva can’t speak Norwegian aside from phrases here and there, can only understand it if people speak it slowly enough. He used to wonder what it would be like if he traded his Norwegian for her English. If he’d like that better, or if he’d spend the rest of his life missing the thing that most connects him to a country he’s only been to a handful of times since he was seven years old.

(He still doesn’t really have an answer to that question.)

“You feel sort of in between,” Even says. “Not quite Norwegian, not quite American. Sort of both. Sort of neither.”

(Yet another thing Isak should be used to - the way Even fills in his gaps better than he knows how.)

“Yeah, like, sort of…” Isak gestures vaguely. “Untethered? Is that stupid?”

“No,” Even says. “I think I get what you mean.”

It stuns Isak into silence, a statement like that. Because he believes Even, really. He believes that Even understands all that Isak says, even if Isak himself doesn’t really know what exactly he means.

“It’s good our parents didn’t let us forget Norwegian, though, don’t you think?” Even says. “Or at least, I think it is. There are some things that just… wouldn’t sound the same, in English. And I can tell how happy it makes my mom to hear me say them.”

Isak used to refuse to speak to his mother in Norwegian. He’d never dare do the same for his father, of course, but his mother was a different story. He used to rebel against her in all sorts of ways. And she never said anything about it, never protested, never so much as questioned it.

(There’s a lot of things she never said.)

Things are a little different, now. He tries to be more careful with her, to make up for all the times that he wasn’t. Still, he doesn’t know that he’s ever thought about how happy it would make her to hear him speak in the language she grew up with.

“I think nowadays I like feeling in between,” Even says. “It might bother other people, not to know what to call me so easily, but I don’t mind that much. I’m just me, you know what I mean? Nothing else really matters.”

(Figures, of course, that Even is the kind of person to say something like that so freely.)

“That’s…” Isak swallows. “That’s great, Even.”

He can feel Even’s eyes on him, at that.

“I didn’t used to think like that,” Even says. “And it’s still hard, you know? But I like being who I am. I think I can say that much, at least.”

Isak contemplates that, for a moment. Turns the words over in his head. Thinks about the things Even has said to him about what he’s been through this last year. The things he hasn’t.

And maybe Even never will say those things, but he doesn’t have to. He doesn’t have to because Isak already knows how significant it must be for him to say something like this and actually believe it.

And he really does, Isak can tell; his voice is hushed in its seriousness, but there’s a conviction in it, a sort of quiet firmness, that is almost impossible to miss.

Bravery, Isak thinks. That’s what it is.

(Even is probably the bravest person Isak knows.)

“You should,” Isak says.

There’s a beat of silence before Even answers. “Yeah?”

“Who you are…” Isak looks over at Even. He allows himself this, just for a moment. The sight of him with his pale hands squeezing around the wheel. Hair falling into his forehead. His endlessly kind eyes, as they stare at the road and beyond.

Isak turns away. Just for a moment, but it was more than enough.

“Who you are is pretty damn cool,” he says quietly.

Silence that almost seems taken aback, if silences could feel things. Then -

“Wow.” He can practically hear the smile in Even’s voice. “Thanks, Isak.”

It’s quiet, for a few moments. Isak leans his forehead against the window. It feels like he should feel embarrassed to have admitted something like that to Even. And to be so honest about it, too. To be so unguarded. To feel like he could be that way around someone. He surprised himself, actually. He had no idea he was capable of doing that.

(But he’s not embarrassed, strangely.

Or maybe it’s not strange, if the person he felt he could be like that with is Even.

Maybe that thought is strange in and of itself.)

Even gasps, then. “Wait, wait, I love this song,” he says, spinning the volume dial on his music up. Isak barely has time to get used to this sudden change in mood before he registers the music that fills up the car.

He squints. “Is this - Carly Rae Jepsen?”

“Yes!” Even laughs. “She’s a fucking genius!”

“I kind of thought she’d faded into obscurity at this point?” Isak says tentatively.

“Blasphemer!” Even yells. “Her legacy will live forever!”

Isak has to snort at that. “God, you’re such a loser.”

Even is apparently paying him no mind. “Late night watching television,” he’s belting out enthusiastically. For a musician, he could really use some practice singing on key. “But how’d we get in this position?”

As they slow to a stop at a red light, Even turns fully in his seat toward Isak, pointing at him with a lopsided grin on his face. “It’s way too soon, I know this isn’t love…”

And suddenly, Isak’s entire mouth is dry.

(The way it always fucking gets around Even.)

“But I need to tell you something - !”

Even explodes into motion, his upper torso rocking back and forth, arms flailing all over the place.

“I really, really, really, really, really, really like you,” Even’s singing with his eyes on the road, and honestly it’s quieter than Isak expected him to sound after all the fucking build up, his movements far louder than his voice, and it’s in this moment that he understands that Even doesn’t mean anything by this, doesn’t feel anything but how much he loves this song.

It’s just a couple turns now until they get to Isak’s house, so he gives Even the directions, and not once does Even pause over the lyrics. He’s slapping his palms against the wheel now, nodding his head up and down with such force that his hair keeps flopping up and down, but ridiculous as it may be Isak can’t really find it in himself to look away. He thought he’d already seen Even cut loose, but this is on a different level altogether.

(Honestly, it’s a little mesmerizing.)

Can’t seem to find it in himself to stop smiling, either, if the ache in his cheeks is anything to go by. But he thinks he’s okay with that, for once.

“And I want you, do you want me, do you want me, too?”

Even pulls up in front of Isak’s house just as the music quiets. He turns to Isak and smiles, another one of his soft ones.

“Who gave you eyes like that?” Even sings along to Carly Rae Jepsen, his voice quieter than Isak realized it could be. “Said you could keep them?”

Something warm is covering Isak’s knuckles. He looks down, sees Even’s hand over his own. Swallows hard. Can’t figure out how the hell it got there.

“I don’t know how to act, or if I should be leaving…”

And now Even’s just mouthing along to the words, silence whispering between his lips.

“I’m running out of time, going out of my mind - ”

He hasn’t looked away from Isak once.

“I need to tell you something,” Even murmurs, and for half a moment Isak almost thinks the words sound more like speech than song.

Isak’s phone buzzes loudly in his pocket.

They spring apart, or maybe Isak pulls away first, he doesn’t know; but he knows without looking that it’s his father, his father who is probably wondering why it’s taking him so damn long to get home. His father, with his questions. All his questions.

He pulls out his phone anyway to look, so he can look anywhere but Even. And yeah, there it is. A text from his dad. He doesn’t open it, doesn’t have to. He closes his eyes, and when he exhales he wills his breathing to steady.

(He’s not sure that it can.)

“Hey,” Even says. The song’s still playing, but he’s not singing anymore, or dancing, or moving at all. “Hey, you okay?”

Isak can’t stand to look at him right now.

(Can’t stand to know what his face looks like.)

“I, um…” Isak takes in a breath. “I should go.”

“Isak, I - ”

Isak opens his eyes and glances over at him, instinct taking over at the sound of his name, and Even breaks off, his hand dropping to his side. He looks down, biting his lip as if holding in what he really wants to say.

(Maybe Isak gets that. Maybe he gets it way more than he should.)

“I’ll see you on Monday, yeah?” Isak says. His throat aches for some reason, a reason he can’t put into words. “Thanks for the ride. Really. It… It means a lot.”

And this is why he didn’t want to look at Even, because somehow he knew Even’s eyes would get this soft, so fucking soft and gentle it almost tears at something deep, deep inside him.

But he’s looking at Even anyway, so he sees it. Sees the way the softness spreads across his face, his entire self. Sees his smile, sees that it’s small, and there, and real. And Isak is helpless against it, helpless against how beautiful the softness looks on Even; and if Even said or did anything at all, Isak would let him. In this moment, he would let him.

Isak’s phone buzzes again in his grip. Even says, “Of course, Isak, any time”; and the moment’s passed. Isak climbs out of the car, and closes the door behind him, and waves goodbye one last time.

And as he makes his way to his front door, the sound of the idling engine behind him drowning the whole world out, he does his best not to think about the look in Even’s eyes just before he turned around.

Or the wild, erratic beating of his own heart.

Or how easily the word “beautiful” came to mind just moments before.

(Truthfully, though, it’s pretty much all he can think about.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -In marching band, Mahdi plays the baritone horn [looks like [this](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/bf/Marchingbaritone.jpg)], which is what people who play the euphonium [looks like [this](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/f/f1/Euphonium_Boosey_and_hawkes.jpg)] in concert band typically played in marching band at my school.
> 
> -The song Even is rocking out to in the car is "[I Really Like You](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qV5lzRHrGeg)" by Carly Rae Jepsen. I recommend watching the video if you enjoy watching Tom Hanks lip synch to music by a cultural icon.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has to talk to Even. He doesn’t know what to say (he doesn’t know _how_ to say it) but he’s pretty sure he’s going to - fuck, explode or go insane, whichever comes first, if he doesn’t see him soon. If he doesn’t at least try to make sense of what he felt in that car. Or of what he wanted.
> 
> (Because in that moment, he wanted it so badly it hurt.)

_ VI. _

Sunday morning Isak wakes up half an hour before noon, obnoxiously bright sunshine streaming in through the window and his phone buzzing angrily under his cheek. He rolls over on his back, squinting tiredly at the ceiling, and when his phone won’t stop vibrating he reaches for it and fumbles for the “answer call” button.

“Eva, why,” is the first thing he says when he brings his phone up to his ear.

“Oh shit, I woke you up, didn’t I? I totally woke you up.”

“Maybe,” Isak grumbles. He touches the corner of his mouth, feels the drool already drying on his skin. He wipes at it half-heartedly with his fist.

“In my defense,” Eva sniffs, “no normal person sleeps until one PM the way you do.”

“Thanks,” Isak says dryly.

“Anyway, I’m in your driveway so you should come let me in. I come bearing gifts! To make up for how shitty I feel about yesterday. Are your parents in?”

Isak frowns. “You don’t have to feel - ”

“Come on, dude.”

“But you’re not…” Isak breaks off with a long exhale. “Dad didn’t have to drive me home, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Oh. Hm.” For a scary moment, it almost seems like she’ll ask who did end up giving him a ride, but she doesn’t. She breathes out what sounds suspiciously like a sigh of relief, instead. “So… is he home?”

“Nah, if you have room to park in the driveway probably not. And mom’s probably doing shit with her church or something.”

Again, Eva doesn’t ask any follow-up questions to that. Which is no surprise, all things considered. It’s always felt as if she has this incredible instinct that tells her when pushing things really would bother him. She just says, “Well, come let me in, then,” and hangs up.

It’s Eva, so he doesn’t bother with jeans; just pulls on the nearest shirt and pair of sweatpants he can see, and never mind that they both have holes along the seams. Who gives a fuck right now, anyway. 

(About anything.)

Eva is waiting at his front door when he gets there. She wasn’t kidding about the gifts part. In her hands is one of those cardboard drink trays, holding two fluorescent blue slushies from QuikTrip and two Starbucks cups. He’s too tired to bitch about how shitty Starbucks is this morning, just grabs the nearest cup and drinks.

She pats him on the head when he puts the drink down, and says nothing more.

They end up on the couch, the TV on mute (not that it’s necessary today, but old habits die hard) as they mindlessly play Mario Kart on Isak’s Wii (the worst version of Mario Kart, Eva has always claimed, because the controls are shit, but they always end up playing it anyway because it’s the only version of Mario Kart Isak knows she’ll let him win). They sip at their drinks between rounds, and at some point Eva orders them pizza. Pepperoni on one side because Eva knows Isak thinks you shouldn’t fuck with the classic pizza toppings, pineapple and ham on the other side because she also knows he thinks Hawaiian pizza is an abomination even though it’s her favorite kind. After it arrives and they pass over their combined change to the delivery person, scraping together just enough for a proper tip, she puts on some soap opera from the nineties, the TV still muted with the captions on, and they sit on the floor in silence, pizza box on her lap and their legs pressed up comfortably against each other.

It’s simple, her companionship. She doesn’t ask anything of him, doesn’t give anything she knows he wouldn’t. He’s always loved that about her, that he always knows where they stand with each other. And they’ve known each other for so long they hardly even need to say anything for that to be true.

(He’d never say this, for starters, but he’s glad she’s here.)

Still, the silence between them, much as he’s grateful that Eva understands it’s what he needs right now, means it’s inevitable that his mind will wander. And it’s probably even more inevitable that his mind, now, wanders toward Even.

In the silence, Isak can’t stop thinking about the look on Even’s face when he got out of the car. He just can’t.

(He didn’t realize someone else’s feelings could  _ ache _ so damn much.)

He should have said something. He should have done something. He doesn’t know what that something is, but pretty much anything would have been better than what he did do. Literally anything.

What was there to be done, though? It’s hard to think about, hard to fight against the visceral horror that the thought  _ I have a crush on a boy and I’m at least fifty five percent sure he might like me back _ unleashes, because holy shit, he has  _ never done anything like this before _ . He’s had feelings before, sure. How else was he supposed to figure out he was gay? But it was always people who were safe. Straight people, or people in committed relationships, or sometimes both.

And he knows for a fact it never felt like this before. He’s never looked at another person and wanted -

Wanted -

( _ Wanted  _ \- )

It scares him shitless, honestly, to want something so badly when he can’t even put it into proper words. It makes his heart pound so hard he can’t think straight (ha! There’s a pun Eva would be happy about), and that scares him.

(It’s almost like he doesn’t even know who he is anymore.)

And what if he’d said something? What if  _ Even _ had said something? What then? What would come next? That scares him more, the not knowing part. Makes him feel completely stupid and helpless and a million other adjectives. The future is such a big fucking thing not to be able to put a name to.

The thing is, he’s never been in a real relationship ( _ god _ , what a horrible word) before. He doesn’t know what it’s like to want one of those, to want it enough you’d try your best to make it work. He hardly even knows  _ how _ they work. He dated a few girls back in freshman year but that hardly qualifies as real, either. If only because back then he was pretending to be someone he wasn’t.

(He could never do that around Even, and that scares him worst of all.)

And who knows if that’s what Even really wants, anyway? Who is Isak to speak for him, to assume anything about him?

Even deserves so much better than that.

Isak squeezes his eyes shut. A mistake, as it turns out, because all he can see against the darkness behind his eyelids is Even. Even and his lopsided smile and his thin, knobby fingers. Even and his many colored headbands and perpetually gelled hair and neon knee-high socks. Even and his eighties pop and his terrible dance moves. Even and his boisterous loudness, and his silence.

There must be a thousand different images of Even that pass Isak by in this moment, and they’re all fucking beautiful.

God. He doesn’t actually have a clue what to say to Even the next time they see each other.

(He really, really doesn’t.)

“Hey, Isak?”

Isak’s eyes flutter open. He turns toward Eva, who’s looking down at her phone. He glances down at his own phone. Three thirty PM.

“You should probably be getting home soon,” Isak says.

Eva falls on her back and groans. “I’ve got so much homework, it’s not even fucking funny,” she says, but otherwise makes no indication she’ll move from the floor any time soon.

Isak leans his head back, face toward the ceiling. “You always have so much homework.”

She nudges his leg with her foot. “So do you, dude.”

He doesn’t say anything to that. He breathes in, and out. 

“I hate being in high school,” he says. “Everything feels so much more complicated than it needs to be.”

“Amen,” Eva says, raising a fist of solidarity in the air.

Another breath in; a few beats of silence. He closes his eyes.

“Why is everything so confusing right now?” he says. In the sudden darkness, he can’t ignore the way his voice sounds when he says that. The tremble at the end of his question, the edge of desperation in his words that makes them sound even more pathetic. He knows he’s being dramatic, but fuck, he’s seventeen. He’s allowed to be, isn’t he?

Eva knocks her knuckles against the back of his hand, a familiar gesture.

“You’ll figure it out,” she says. “I know you will.”

He doesn’t argue against that, doesn’t have the energy to. He just lies there in the sound of his own silence.

On Monday, though, he doesn’t feel any closer to figuring it out than he did the day before. The night wasn’t kind to him, and he spends most of the morning wandering through his classes in a sleep-deprivation-induced daze. It’s a straight up miracle he doesn’t fall asleep during US History, but at the end of class instead of notes he just has a page of half-hearted scribbled lines and abstract doodles. He balls up the piece of paper and tosses it into the trash as he leaves the room.

He has to talk to Even. He doesn’t know what to say (he doesn’t know  _ how _ to say it) but he’s pretty sure he’s going to - fuck, explode or go insane, whichever comes first, if he doesn’t see him soon. If he doesn’t at least try to make sense of what he felt in that car. Or of what he wanted.

(Because in that moment, he wanted it so badly it hurt.)

Concert band rehearsal is his first good chance to see him, being the only class they have together. But the first thing he sees when he takes his seat in class, trumpet in hand, is the empty chair in the row in front of him, right in the middle of the saxophone section. He feels the absence keenly, like a fire in the peripheral of his vision that won’t go out. No matter how hard he tries, he can’t ignore it, can’t stop himself from glancing over at the gaping space where a gangly dork of a human should be sitting, turning his head and shooting those particular sidelong smiles at Isak that make him feel like his whole heart is going to fall apart.

Why, though? Why isn’t Even in class? If Even’s not here it probably means he didn’t come to school at all. Is he sick? Did something else happen?

Isak can’t help but feel he has something to do with it, somehow. 

(The thought makes him sick to his stomach.)

He usually eats lunch in the band room with Jonas rather than the cafeteria, which is why he packs his own lunch. School lunch food is pretty damn disgusting, anyway. When he meets Jonas at his band locker at the beginning of lunch period, though, Jonas takes one look at him, quirks an eyebrow, and says, “Everything okay?”

Isak almost wants to respond with,  _ No, nothing is okay, and nothing will be okay again, _ but even for him, that’s pretty melodramatic. And what if Jonas asked him to explain? Then he’d have to say he’s being melodramatic over a  _ boy _ , and frankly that’s even worse.

“I…” Isak hesitates. “Can we talk?”

Jonas shoulders his locker shut and gestures with a thumb over his shoulder. “Baseball field?”

Isak swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

The baseball field is the closest field to the music building, and also the closest thing they have to privacy. Technically they’re not supposed to be there during the school day without permission, but no one is as conscientious of the rules as they say they are. If they were, Isak and Jonas would be sitting in the cafeteria to begin with.

They hop over the locked gate and make their way to their usual spot at the top of the bleachers. For a September day, it’s finally starting to cool down a little, breeze sharp against Isak’s cheeks, but the sun is as bright as ever. He’s comfortable in his thin hoodie and jeans, thinks he’s glad he didn’t wear a beanie to school today.

Jonas leans against the wired fence, sandwich balanced on his knee and unpeeled banana in his hand. He tilts his head back, face toward the sky. “Whoa, check that out,” he says, pointing. “That cloud looks like Donald Trump.”

Isak makes a gagging noise. “Don’t remind me he exists, please,” he says. “Because if I have to remember him I also have to remember that the elections are in two months, and then I just get violently depressed.”

“Oof, yeah, actually, same here. Our country’s going to shit and so is the world.”

“What else is new,” Isak mutters. “So is the whole fucking universe.”

(So is his life.)

Jonas doesn’t answer, can probably tell this is something Isak doesn’t want an answer to. Usually in situations like this he’d change the subject, start rambling about some inane gossip with no expectation for Isak to contribute anything to the conversation. He doesn’t do that, now. Just eats his banana, lets the silence turn into something a little more comfortable.

Isak takes in a breath.

“So,” he says. “I’m going to tell you something, and you’re not allowed to laugh, or say ‘I told you so’, or say anything stupid about it. Like, I’ve thought it all, okay? I already know I’m being a dumbass.”

Jonas says nothing. He puts his banana down, and when Isak looks over at him his expression is still, clear of expectation or judgment. For the briefest of moments, Isak feels a visceral sense of deja-vu, his heart being tugged back in time to nine months ago when they were sitting on this same bench in this same place, and Jonas had the same look on his face as Isak told him he was gay. Three months before that, when they sat on the same bench in the same spot and Jonas squinted at the sun as he said he thought he might be bi.

Another breath. Isak takes it in so deeply he can feel the air fill the cracks in his lungs. Once he says it out loud, there won’t be any going back. It’ll be real. For the first time, it’ll be real.

(But fuck it; maybe it needs to be.)

“I like Even,” Isak says.

Jonas picks up his sandwich. He takes a bite, chews it and swallows.

“Always knew you had good taste in boys,” Jonas says. “Even’s hot as fuck.”

Isak chokes on his laughter. In hindsight, it seems obvious Jonas would say something like that. Then again, this isn’t the hard part. It was never going to be the hard part.

He goes quiet, and Jonas goes quiet too. Waiting. Isak stares down at his hands.

This. 

(This is the hard part.)

“I think he likes me back,” he says. “And I don’t know what to do about it.”

Jonas nods slowly.

“Yeah,” he says. It’s all he says.

Isak falls back until he’s lying down on the bench, cold metal pressing into his shoulder blades. The truth feels even bigger than he thought it could, now that it exists in the world.

Jonas hums thoughtfully. “You don’t have to know, though,” he says. “There aren’t any rules to crushes or feelings or dating or whatever. It’s okay not to know.”

Isak turns his head toward Jonas to squint at him. “You’d know what to do,” Isak says.

“Hell yeah,” Jonas says. “I have game in fuckin’  _ spades _ .”

Isak rolls his eyes, but he can’t keep the smile off his face. Seems that’s getting harder and harder to do by the day.

“So what would you do, then?” he says.

Jonas takes another bite of his sandwich, considering.

“See, the way I see it,” he says, “people are always saying it doesn’t matter in high school, right? You get into college and suddenly it gets, like, a million times harder to stay together with someone you dated in high school. And it’s like, why bother, then, if it doesn’t matter? But people have feelings anyway. You can’t really stop that from happening.”

He takes a swig from his water bottle.

“So why fight it?” Jonas says. “Just be straight up with your feelings, and see where it goes from there. That’s the easiest thing to do, the way I see it.”

“Huh,” Isak says. “Maybe it is.”

He turns his head toward the cloudless sky.

“I don’t know, though,” he says. “I think it does matter. Like - even if you stopped being my friend tomorrow because we got into a huge fight or you had to move away or you were kidnapped by aliens, you were still my friend at some point. The fact that it ended doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”

“Hm,” Jonas says. “And that means you shouldn’t be straight up with your feelings?”

“No.” Isak frowns. “I don’t know. I think maybe it means you should be straight up even more. Because if it matters, no matter when it ends, then that’s all the more reason to go for it. But…” Isak bites his lip. “But that’s what makes it hard. Because it matters, so it matters if you fuck it up.”

“And you think you’d fuck it up with Even,” Jonas says. It’s not a question.

Isak can’t help but wince, anyway. That’s a bizarre fucking sentence to hear out loud.

“I feel like I might have, already,” he says quietly.

“What?” Jonas sounds baffled. “You already told him?”

“No, but…”

“Then you haven’t,” Jonas says firmly. “How can you know if you haven’t even  _ tried _ ? Jesus, Isak, that’s like, crushes 101.”

“Easy for you to say,” Isak mumbles. “You never fuck up when it comes to shit like this.”

Jonas snorts loudly. “Right, yeah,” he says. “If you think  _ I’ve _ never fucked up when it comes to crushes, clearly you need to rethink things a little.”

“Really?” Isak glances over at him, not quite able to mask his surprise. “But you’re always scoring hook-ups.”

“That just means I have even more fuck-ups under my belt than the average person,” Jonas points out. He sighs, then. “I’ve definitely fucked up, lots of times. But I have to say, Isak…” He lets out a long breath. “The things I regret the most are the things I never said.”

Isak thinks about that, for a moment. He’s not entirely sure what Jonas might be referring to. They’ve spent plenty of time talking about the people they would or wouldn’t hook up with, but talking about feelings - about  _ this _ \- is actually kind of a new thing for them. Still, he can feel the weight behind the words. Even if he doesn’t know where they come from, he knows that place matters.

“And besides,” Jonas says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

It’s matter of fact, that statement. Completely devoid of teasing, and of course he leaves it at that, because there’s nothing else he could say that would make Isak feel his point more profoundly.

(When Jonas says it like that, it’s impossible to deny that this matters, too.)

“So…” Isak hesitates. “You think I still have a shot?”

“Yeah,” Jonas says, smiling slightly. “I think you do.”

(Honestly, hearing that feels better than any compliment Jonas might have given.)

Isak glances down at his phone, then. “Shit,” he says. “Three minutes until the end of lunch.”

“Oh, fuck,” Jonas says, springing up out of his seat. “I can’t be late for Physics again, Ms. Davis is already on my ass for the past five times.”

“You’ve been tardy to Physics  _ five times _ ? Dude, what’s wrong with you?”

“Usually it’s because I’m hanging out with you, dumbass,” Jonas says, punching Isak in the shoulder.

Isak punches him back, and this time when he feels himself starting to grin, he lets himself.

They part ways for their separate classes soon after that. It’s still hard for him to concentrate in class, but that’s okay, because at least now he can think about things a little more clearly.

Marching band tonight. That’s going to be it. Even if Even didn’t show up to school, it’s pretty likely he’d still try to go to rehearsal, because it’s pretty much an objective law of the universe that marching band is a thing you go to unless you’re on the verge of dying. So Isak will meet him at their lockers, and he’ll take his chances.

(He’s spent seventeen years of his life not taking them, out of fear or shame or whatever it is that made them feel so out of his reach. Maybe it’s about time he started trying to tip the balance.)

By the end of the day, he still doesn’t have any notes, but he has a plan, and right now that seems much more important.

In the band room after school, though, Even is nowhere to be seen. Not at the lockers, not with the saxophones, not anywhere. And Isak can’t deny anymore that he’s worried. He remembers viscerally what happened the last time they saw each other; and even aside from that, a lot can happen in two days. And fine, Isak’s only known him for a couple months, but it’s not like Even to miss school (or band, which honestly is the more telling indicator). He’s passionate and he’s loyal and he’s committed, especially about the things he cares about, and they’ve never even had to really talk about it for Isak to know how much he cares about band.

So if he’s not here, it’s possible something very, very serious has happened.

Isak knows himself. He knows he can freak out about the smallest things, let them pile up in his head until they’re much bigger than they ever should have been. So maybe he should stop being so dramatic. Maybe this is nothing.

(But Even isn’t.)

He notices Sana standing at the front of the room, and he doesn’t think about it; he just goes. 

“Hey,” Isak says as he approaches her. “Can I ask you something?”

She looks at the clock, then at him, duly unimpressed. “We’re about to start in five minutes,” she says.

“Yeah, I know, I’ll make this quick,” Isak says, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Just… Do you know if Even’s okay? I haven’t seen him around today.”

Sana purses her lips, but thankfully she doesn’t question why Isak would want to know something like that. “He texted me earlier, so I could pass the news along to our director,” she says. “He said he wasn’t feeling well, and that…” Here, there’s real concern in her eyes, warm as it is fierce. “That he might have to miss school for a few days. He doesn’t know yet.”

Isak’s heart drops to his stomach, icy dread washing over him and nearly knocking him breathless.

“Oh,” he says, fighting to keep his expression neutral. “You have his number?”

“I’m not going to give it to you, if that’s what you’re asking,” Sana says, raising an eyebrow.

Isak shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, I just - ” He hesitates. There’s a decision to be made, here. He could say what he wants to say. Risk judgment from Sana, from anyone else who happens to hear. Risk completely fucking it up with Even. Or he could say nothing. 

Which would he regret more?

And as soon as he thinks that, he knows what he’s going to do.

“Can you give him  _ my _ number?” Isak says. “Maybe tell him… Tell him I’d like to talk to him. When he’s feeling better. And that I hope he’s doing okay.”

He half-expects Sana to tell him to fuck off, find a different way to get in touch with Even. But her eyes grow soft, instead. “Yeah, okay,” she says. “I can do that.”

The relief Isak feels is almost dizzying. “Thanks, Sana,” he says. “Really.”

“Don’t mention it,” she says as she pulls out her phone. Her mouth curves up into a smirk. “But you owe me a study session for AP Bio, okay, lab partner?”

Isak grins. “I can do that,” he says, saluting her as he walks away.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t take long for his smile to fade away after he rejoins his section. Mondays are usually reserved for music sectionals, meaning today they’re staying inside, sheltered from the stupid sun. But that just means less opportunity for distraction. If they were outside and on the move, Isak’s phone safely stowed on the sidelines next to his case, he could pretty easily put the whole thing out of his mind. There’s something about the sheer responsibility of putting one foot ahead of the other in the right way at the right time that always manages to drown out everything else inside him, at least for a little while.

But in the band room, rehearsing their music, there’s no movement at all. There’s standing in the same place, and there are long stretches of quiet when the director is working with the woodwinds on their sixteenth note runs, and there’s his phone sitting on his stand, abject in its stillness and its silence.

He reaches for his phone, turning the vibration off and shoving it in his pocket. It’s a possibly futile attempt to stop himself from wondering if Even’s ever going to text him, but he has to do something.

As it is, he’s totally restless. Fingers tapping against the side of his leg, foot tapping up and down even when he’s not playing anything. The bad feeling turning worse by the second, crawling up his throat and sending the back of his neck prickling. He does his best not to look over at the saxophones, but not looking doesn’t mean he forgets there’s someone missing from their ranks, someone important.

(He could never forget that.)

The rest of his section can probably notice how jittery he is, too. He can feel their eyes on him, can practically feel the whispers the rookies exchange between them.

(Or maybe those are about something else entirely.)

It’s a relief when the day’s rehearsal is finally over. A relief except for the fact that when he pulls his phone out of his pocket he has zero notifications, and for the fact that when he goes to his locker, no one is blocking the way.

It’s the not knowing, again, that really gets at him, and he’s always had the most trouble with not knowing. Not knowing what people think of him, not knowing what to say to them, not knowing what to do. Now, there’s not knowing what’s up with Even. Not knowing if he’s even okay. It kills him, fucking eats him up inside and out not to know. Not to have any ready way of knowing. Having to wait for answers. Not knowing if they’ll even come.

(And then there’s not knowing where they stand, and that should be the least important one, but though Isak hates himself for it, it’s the one that kills him the most.)

He’s pretty sure he’ll lose all of his shit if he doesn’t do  _ something _ . So when he gets home, he reaches for his computer and googles one thing: 

“Bipolar disorder”.

He’s not quite sure what he’s hoping to accomplish here. He supposes of all the things he doesn’t know about, this seemed the easiest to address. There’s a lot of times in his life he had no clue what to do, and doing his research has always seemed like the bare minimum that he’s capable of. But he should have figured that the internet is frustratingly unhelpful when it comes something as complex as mental illness. There’s pages upon pages listing symptoms and describing the basics of what manic and depressive episodes entail, sure. Information on what you might experience. Names of drugs you might take.

He doesn’t know what does or doesn’t apply to Even, though, and that’s the crux of it. He doesn’t want to learn what a bunch of psychologists he’ll never meet think having bipolar means. He doesn’t even want to learn what having bipolar means to some random stranger when having bipolar can look so different from one person to the next. 

He wants to know what having bipolar means to Even. And he can’t know that until he talks to him.

(Like pretty much everything else he wants to know right now.)

After a little over an hour of going through Google search results, he falls back on his bed, eyes aching a little from staring at his screen for so long. He reaches for his phone. Still on silent, so it hasn’t vibrated since he got home. He thumbs the screen on, expecting a GIF or two from Eva, maybe a couple messages from the group chat he’s in with the boys.

There isn’t. 

Instead, there’s a text from an unknown number.

**Unknown** **  
** _ Isak? _

It was sent eight minutes ago. He scrambles up into a sitting position, willing his thumbs steady as he taps out a reply.

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_ Even? _ _  
_ _ Are you okay?? _

**Unknown** **  
** _ What are you up to now? Can we talk? _

**Isak Valtersen** ****  
_ Chilling at home _ _  
_ _ Call me? _

Isak falls back on his bed. He saves Even’s number, turns the volume up on his phone. He holds it to his chest.

He waits.

But the minutes stretch by, and it occurs to him the call isn’t coming. Even answered his first messages almost immediately, so the chances of him not seeing his next messages seem incredibly low. Unless he’s ignoring him for some reason, which makes no sense. 

(Or maybe it makes too much sense.)

Isak stares at the ceiling. It’s totally blank, aside from a couple pieces of scotch tape stuck on the plaster from years past. When they still lived in Oslo, he used to have a model of the solar system hanging from his ceiling, small painted planets suspended by string above his head. His mom had helped him make a new one when they first moved into this house, maybe in the hopes that he’d miss home a little less. The lightbulb in the middle of the ceiling was the sun, and he’d painted the Earth himself, haphazard splotches of green among blue oceans. She’d hung them up for him with cheap yarn from the craft store, standing on his bed barefoot and smiling down at him as she fumbled with the tape. They weren’t in the right order, he remembers that. Pluto next to Venus and Saturn next to Mars. Jupiter right next to the sun itself. He hadn’t minded, though. The idea of it was enough. The feeling of outer space right at his fingertips.

It used to bring him a lot of comfort. When the kids at school made him want to cry, when his dad got home late from work or his mom had to go to the hospital for reasons no one told him as a child, he’d lie on his back, naming the planets one by one in his head, counting them silently. Jupiter, Neptune, Mercury. One, two, three. And he’d look at the Earth, hanging right over his bed, and think about how small everyone on the planet really was compared to the vastness of the universe. It used to make him feel better, the thought that in the grand scheme of things everyone was as small as he was.

Then middle school came, and along with it came fear, fear so thick in his throat it was paralyzing; and nothing was comforting anymore. The best way to make the fear go away was to stop standing out. To pretend like he belonged. It used to make him so fucking upset that he couldn’t, not even to himself, and if he couldn’t deceive himself, what hope did he have of convincing anyone else? 

One day he came home from school and he looked up at those styrofoam balls, the amateur paint job and the shoddy taping, and it hit him how utterly stupid they looked. He was mad at his mom, too, he remembers, although he doesn’t know why anymore. He just remembers the annoyance roiling in his chest, the petulant kind you get as a kid when things don’t go your way. He remembers leaning his head back, staring at those stupid fake planets hanging from their stupid crappy string. He remembers standing on his bed and reaching out and ripping them from the ceiling. Tossing them into the garbage. Falling back on his bed and trying to pretend he felt as vindicated as he wanted to be.

And of course, his mom never said a thing about it.

It’s such a cliche though, isn’t it, to be so mad at the world all the time? To feel so ignored? So wronged? Makes him feel like such a damn teenager. Which he supposes isn’t a bad thing when that’s what he is, but he hates being so aware of it. Sometimes, he feels way too grown up. And sometimes he feels like such a fucking child.

Maybe that’s the thing about high school. Maybe it’s the way that it is because everyone’s just waiting for the point in their lives when they finally feel like they belong in the right year. In the right body. In the right life. 

And maybe he’ll never get to feel that way. Maybe that’s why he has all this anger and sadness inside him. But god, he’s sick and fucking tired of waiting for it. What does it matter if the kids at school talk? What does it matter if they don’t? The world is vast, and the universe is even vaster. And he’s so small, and all of his problems are, too. And all of it matters only as much as he lets it.

Which is why it kind of hurts that the boy he likes won’t call him. It doesn’t  _ have _ to matter, this minuscule thing compared to the cosmos themselves. But he wants it to.

(God, he wants it to.)

His phone chimes, then, loud enough that it startles him. It’s not a phone call, but a text message.

_ You should look outside your window. _

If that isn’t ominous as fuck, Isak doesn’t know what is. But it’s a message from Even, and that’s enough to get his heart racing. He gets up and walks over to his window, trepidation burning in his lungs.

There’s a car parked across the street.

A red car.

Isak blinks once. He rubs his eyes. It’s still there.

Then instinct takes over, and he bolts out his room, down the stairs, to the front door. He stops at the curb, still utterly gobsmacked at the image of the car right in front of him, because even if he’s only seen it once in his life he’d know it anywhere. That color is unmistakable.

Even’s sitting in the back for some inscrutable reason, knees folded against the back of the passenger seat. There’s hardly any time to register this, though, because Isak’s brain is still making a Herculean effort to wrap around the impossibility of Even parked in front of his house. He’s here, and he shouldn’t be. He’s here, and he shouldn’t be, and this is everything Isak could have possibly wanted in this moment. 

It’s a war inside him, absolute mayhem, and in the end it’s so overwhelming that Isak abandons the pursuit of rationality entirely. Instead, he lets sheer impulse propel him forward - bolts across the street and almost collides with the side of Even’s car, pulls at the door handle, ignores the way his hands and his chest and his entire self is shaking; and he climbs into the car.

Even opens his mouth, but Isak beats him to it.

“What are you doing here?”

He’s breathless, he’s vaguely aware of that, of the way his words stumble over themselves as they fight their way out of his mouth. But Even is here, he’s here right next to him, here and real and breathing; and that’s always had this peculiar way of making Isak forget to care about the things he usually cares about, like how he sounds or what his words mean to someone else.

All that matters right now is what his words mean to himself. And what his words mean right now is sheer and utter awe, at the very truth of Even’s existence.

(Maybe that’s what his words always mean around Even.)

Even closes his mouth, and opens it again.

“This was probably the stupidest idea ever, but…” He exhales. “You said you wanted to talk, and I wanted to see you. I probably should have called first, I’m sorry. I, um, didn’t really think this through.”

“No, it’s okay,” Isak says, though he still has no idea what the hell is going on. “I mean… I wanted to see you too.”

“Oh,” Even says, voice barely audible.

The softness of his voice takes Isak aback, stops him in his tracks a little. He pauses and takes a moment to look at Even, really and properly look at him. The paleness of his skin, stark in the waning light of day. His fingers tapping quickly against his knee. He has on a thick hoodie, a bit incongruous for such a mild day, but otherwise he looks pretty much the same as always. Granted, that’s not always an indication that everything’s okay, but shit, Isak’s just glad to know he’s alive.

“Are you okay?” Isak says. “Seriously, I mean, Sana said you weren’t feeling well, and I thought - ” His words stumble again. “Well, I thought…”

“Oh,” Even says again. He lets out a small laugh. “Yeah, I, uh, I had a stomach bug last night? I wasn’t sure if it was just a one time thing or something more serious so my mom wanted me to stay home just in case, but we’re, like, ninety five percent sure that it was food poisoning. I’ll probably be back at school tomorrow. I feel so restless at home, you know?”

Isak almost feels like laughing himself, from sheer and unadulterated relief. Thank god, he can’t stop thinking. Thank god, thank god, thank god. 

(Thank god it wasn’t anything worse than that. Thank god all of Isak’s worst fears turned out to be for nothing.

Figures that they would be, considering how desperately he was grasping at straws for explanations, but he can’t even be that upset about it.)

“That’s good. I mean,” Isak amends quickly, “not good that you were probably puking your guts up, but good that, you know. You’re doing okay.”

Even laughs again, and that’s relieving too, seeing the way his eyes light up with a smile. It’s familiar now, which means it’s comforting. 

“You were that worried about me, huh?” he says, knocking their shoulders together.

Isak can’t even bring himself to joke. “Yeah,” he says. “I was, actually.”

Even doesn’t say anything to that for a moment, as his smile grows soft. Another thing that feels familiar to Isak, at this point.

(Another thing that makes him feel warm on the inside.)

“Well,” Even says. “I’m doing okay now.”

There’s no way Isak can miss what he means by that. The warmth inside him almost burns.

“I really am glad to see you, though,” Isak says.

Even raises his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Isak says. “This is going to sound stupid as hell, but… I missed you.”

Even’s mouth falls open. It would almost be comical if Isak’s heart didn’t feel like it was about to burst in his chest.

“I…” Even swallows. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all.”

And maybe this is the crux of it, Isak thinks. Maybe this is why everything outside this car feels so insignificant compared to this, this moment, this boy sitting next to him with his quiet words and his quieter eyes.

Because when Even says something like that, Isak  _ wants _ to believe him.

And he does. Sitting in this car, the realization crashes on him like a tidal wave. He does believe him.

“I just…” Isak takes in a breath. “I need to talk to you about something.”

“Something.” Even licks his lower lip. “Is this about what happened on Saturday?”

“What - ” Isak falters. “What do you think happened on Saturday?”

“What do  _ you _ think happened on Saturday?” Even says quietly.

Maybe it’s a deflection, maybe Even is just being overly cautious by circumventing the topic. But even as Isak thinks it, he knows that’s not right. He knows what it sounds like when Even is trying to be careful. This doesn’t sound like that.

This sounds like Even cares about what Isak has to say.

(If Even cares what he has to say, that means this matters to him. 

And that thought changes everything.)

“I think,” Isak says, “you were trying to tell me something. And I think I knew what it was, but I was scared of it.”

Even nods slowly. “What were you scared of?”

“I think,” he says, “I was scared of what I felt. Because it felt so big and real and overwhelming and I didn’t know what to do about it. And I didn’t want to - to fuck it up, you know? Because it felt important. This feels important.”

“This?” Even says.

“This,” Isak says. “Us. You.”

“Me,” Even echoes faintly.

Isak swallows hard. “You know what I want to say, don’t you?”

The corner of Even’s mouth twitches up. “I might have an idea,” he says.

Isak’s heart has never felt so loud in his chest, which is ironic considering the world has never felt so quiet around him.

“Do I have to say it, then?”

“Yeah,” Even says. “I think you do.”

Isak leans in close, until their foreheads are almost touching but not quite. Close enough to hear when Even’s breath catches, close enough to feel it.

“What happens after I say it?” Isak whispers.

Silence for what feels like infinity.

Then -

Warmth covering his knuckles. Warmth between his fingers.

A squeeze from another hand.

“Why don’t you say it and find out?” Even whispers back.

Isak opens his eyes, turns his face toward Even. Glances down at their intertwined hands. Looks up at Even, heart in his throat.

This is it, he realizes. This right here. Even’s never been closer to him than in this moment. And he’s still, and he’s silent, and he’s listening; and there’s nothing between them, now, except for this last choice Isak has to make.

And it is a choice, because there’s still time for Isak not to say what he wants to say. To pull away, to laugh and say, _never mind, why don’t you go home?_ All things considered, that would be the safe thing to do. No risks taken. No need to worry about the what-if’s - what if they break up in a month, or a year, or a day; what if they can’t make this work after Even graduates, because no matter what he decides to do with his life he’ll still leave no matter what; what if it ends badly, what if it ends in heartbreak _,_ what if it _ends_ \- because there won’t be a chance for them to ever be a problem.

But that’s a lie, because if he doesn’t take that risk, there will be at least one what-if he’ll be asking for the rest of his life. It’s small, so much smaller than all the other ones. One question, one uncertainty, against a whole infinity of questions, of possible ways for all of this to turn horribly wrong.

One question against many. Even as he thinks it, he already knows which he’d rather know the answer to.

(He has no idea if that matters to the universe. It probably doesn’t. 

But it matters to him. It does.)

Isak squeezes Even’s hand. He doesn’t look away.

“I like you,” he says.

The whole world feels still under their feet, just for a moment.

“What a coincidence,” Even says lightly, as if Isak can’t feel how sweaty his palm is, how fast his pulse is under the skin of his wrist. As if he can’t hear the slight tremble in his voice. “I like you, too.”

(And the world starts turning again.)

Isak can’t help it, then. He bursts out laughing, because this didn’t go how he imagined at all; but he has never in his life been so glad to be proven wrong.

Even’s grinning too, grinning so big it’s almost hard to look at. Isak doesn’t look away, because it’s beautiful; it’s the most beautiful goddamn thing he’s ever seen.

After a while, the laughter subsides on its own, the feeling of it still aching in his chest. “Did I fuck it up?” he says.

Even reaches out with his other hand, fingers grazing the line of Isak’s jaw. A barely there touch, but he feels it more than anything he’s ever felt before.

“Nah,” Even says. He tilts his head, just enough for his lips to brush against Isak’s cheek. It’s a slow motion, and heartbreakingly soft; and Isak can’t breathe.

Even’s exhale is soft, too, against Isak’s skin, his heart. “Can I…” 

He doesn’t have to finish the question. Isak’s already nodding.

So Even leans in, and he kisses him.

Isak always thought kissing a boy he liked would be probably terrifying, and maybe exhilarating, and definitely entirely overwhelming. He used to imagine closing his eyes and seeing fireworks, endless, nameless colors; everything he didn’t see when he kissed girls. He used to think everything would feel too loud. Too much. 

But there’s no music, now. No noise, no lights. It’s dark in the car, and it’s quiet. And when he closes his eyes, it gets darker, and quieter. And it doesn’t feel like too much. This heat against his lips, this gentleness against his skin. It feels like enough.

Even breaks away gently. A brief moment, the soft pressure against his mouth. Isak opens his eyes, and Even’s are open too. So big and so blue Isak can hardly stand it. Roughly, he takes hold of the back of Even’s neck and pulls him back in, and Even makes an inarticulate sound into his mouth and presses closer, even closer than Isak thought was physically possible. He squeezes his eyes shut again, letting the moment wash over him. It doesn’t crash into him like a wave; it settles over him like sinking.

And he slides his fingers through Even’s hair, and Even makes another strangled noise against his lips; and Isak kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him. 

Some time later, after Isak’s somehow managed to push Even back so that he’s almost lying down underneath him (their legs pushed up uncomfortably against the car door but honestly he can’t really give a shit right now), something occurs to him. He pulls away abruptly with a frown, ignoring the petulant noise Even makes. 

“Hey,” he says. “Why were you sitting in the backseat when I came down?”

Even looks oddly abashed, at that.

“I was, uh,” he says. “I was kind of hoping something like this would happen?”

Isak raises an eyebrow, not quite able to keep the smile off his face. “This?”

Even rests his hands against Isak’s hips, thumbs brushing against the hem of his shirt. “You know,” he says, matter of fact, “it’s very difficult to make out with someone in the front seat of a car, what with all the, um, stuff in between.”

Isak buries his face in Even’s shoulder, shaking with laughter. “You’re such a fucking dork.”

“Hey, I’m the dork you like,” Even says, poking him in the cheek. “Whoa, can you believe that? You like me! Isn’t that incredible?”

“Does that really surprise you?” Isak says, tilting his head up to look at him. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Yeah, well.” Even runs a hand through Isak’s hair. “I wanted to be sure. Like, two hundred percent sure.”

Fondness swells almost painfully in Isak’s chest. “And you weren’t two hundred percent sure?”

“I was maybe at, like, a solid ninety five percent,” Even says.

He’s still grinning, that gorgeous lopsided grin that carved a place for itself in Isak’s heart months ago. Isak leans down to press a kiss to the corner of it.

“And how about now?” he says.

“Ninety nine point nine nine nine percent,” Even says, grin growing wider.

Isak kisses the line of his jaw. “And now?”

Even’s breath hitches, much to Isak’s delight. “Uh…”

Isak presses a kiss to his Adam’s apple. “And now?”

“I think we’ll get there one day,” Even says breathlessly.

Isak pulls away with a laugh. “You’re a trainwreck.”

“Excuse me,” Even says. “I think we’re both trainwrecks.”

“Honestly,” Isak says, “I’d rather be a trainwreck with you than a trainwreck on my own.”

Right now, that feels truer than most things. There’s a lot he doesn’t know. What’ll happen to them when they walk through the band room door tomorrow. What people will think or do or say about them. What’ll happen to them in the future. It’s true that he can’t know any of that in this moment. 

But it’s also true that somehow, he cares a little less knowing Even doesn’t know, either. And that matters to him. That matters a lot.

“Yeah,” Even says, with a smile you could probably see from outer space. “Me, too.”

(And this matters, too. It really does.

It matters more than anything else in the entire universe.)


	7. coda

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even’s already in the locker room when Isak gets there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the closed door of his locker. And okay, if Isak wasn’t out of breath already (which he definitely isn’t, not in the slightest), he definitely can’t deny that looking at Even for the first time since last night - last night with his warm mouth against Isak’s, his knee between his legs, his sweaty palms against the skin of his waist - is more than enough to make his lungs trip over themselves in his chest.

_VII._

True to his word (and much to Isak’s relief), Even does make it to school the next day. In the last period of the day, Isak receives a text from him, something about needing to talk to him about something in person. Isak would like to say he’s the kind of person who would take that completely and totally chill. He’d like to say he’s the kind of person who wouldn’t practically run to the band room as soon as the bell rang.

(He’d really love to.)

Even’s already in the locker room when Isak gets there, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his back against the closed door of his locker. And okay, if Isak wasn’t out of breath already (which he definitely isn’t, not in the slightest), he definitely can’t deny that looking at Even for the first time since last night - last night with his warm mouth against Isak’s, his knee between his legs, his sweaty palms against the skin of his waist - is more than enough to make his lungs trip over themselves in his chest.

Even, on the other hand, hasn’t seemed to notice Isak’s approach. He’s leaning over a small notebook propped against his thigh with one earbud in, humming quietly as he sketches or writes or draws or whatever it is he’s doing. It’s a pretty familiar tune, but between the memories of last night and, well _, Even_ , Isak doesn’t exactly have room inside himself to think about it.

“Hey,” he manages to say without sounding too strangled, which he has to count as some sort of victory.

Even looks up at the sound of Isak’s voice and grins. Isak had no idea it was possible for his bright warm eyes to get even brighter and warmer, but there it fucking is.

“Hey,” he says, patting the floor next to him, an unspoken invitation for Isak to join him. “What’s up?”

Isak hesitates. What’s the protocol for greeting someone you just started dating last night? Someone you started dating by making out with them in their car, no less. Should they hug? Should there be some sort of kiss on the cheek or something? Any type of acknowledgement of their new relationship status at all?

In the end, Isak settles for trying to treat the situation as he would have before last night, and sits next to Even, back to the lockers and legs outstretched in front of him, as casually as he possibly can.

(Knowing him, on a scale from 1 to 10 his level of casualness is probably at a solid 0, but a boy can dream.)

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, knocking their knees together lightly. It’s about the most bodily contact he can trust himself with right now.

“I don’t mind,” Even says, nudging Isak’s knee back with a soft smile. Still, he stops working in his notebook, tucking his pencil behind his ear and flipping it closed. As he reaches for his bag, he starts humming again, head bobbing up and down to the music. He’s hit the chorus, Isak thinks, and this time, the name of the song comes to mind almost immediately.

“Wait, I know that song you’re humming.” Isak frowns. “Are you kidding me, Even? Vance Joy is, like, the epitome of white indie crap.”

Even sticks his tongue out at him. “It’s a catchy song, sue me,” he says, and fair; Isak supposes Even’s music taste can best be summed up as _catchy songs_. “Also, it kind of reminds me of you.”

Isak raises his eyebrows. “Really?” he says dubiously. He’s not sure how to feel about the most pretentious thing he’s ever heard on radio reminding Even of him. Does that say more about Even, or more about Isak?

(Is he putting too much thought into this? He’s probably putting too much thought into this.)

“Yeah,” Even says, eyes gleaming with a smile. “Especially this part.”

He pauses his music, tilting his head as if in concentration.

“I love you,” he says, “when you’re singing that song…”

He’s just quoting lyrics. Isak knows that that’s really all it is, but his voice is all quiet and low, and he’s leaning in closer presumably so that Isak can hear, and Isak’s mouth and throat and everything inside him is suddenly dryer than the sun itself.

“And I’ve got a lump in my throat,” Even continues softly, staring into Isak’s eyes with an intensity Isak feels all the way down to his toes, “‘cause you’re gonna sing the words wrong.”

And all Isak can do is stare back.

Even bursts into a grin. “Get it? Because you don’t know any songs, so you’re always gonna get the words wrong.”

Isak rolls his eyes, even as his heart hammers traitorously in his chest. “Fuck you,” he says, shoving at Even’s shoulder as hard as he can. “I don’t even sing.”

Even stumbles over, laughing hysterically. “And the world thanks you for it,” he says, eyes alight with happy mischief.

(Fucking hell. The bastard knew exactly what he was doing.)

Isak clears his throat. He is not going to smile, because he is not going to let Even win. “Anyway,” he says, pulling out his phone. “What was this text all about?”

Even squints at Isak’s phone screen. “Oh,” he says. “I was wondering if you needed a ride again today.”

Isak goggles at him. “Seriously? That’s what you needed to talk to me in person about?”

He’s not entirely sure what he was expecting. Something a little more life or death, maybe. But it just figures that it was this. Why is he surprised? Even is so fucking dramatic.

(Not like Isak has any room to judge, of course. Maybe this is why they work together so well.)

“Yeah, I need to know,” Even insists. “This is the most important issue ever.”

“Uh huh,” Isak says, more amused than he’d like to admit. “Are you sure, though? I don’t want to get in your way or anything.”

“I mean, either way,” Even says with a shrug. “I’ve got all the time in the world.”

Isak snorts. “Do you really?”

“Well.” Even glances down, and smiles sheepishly. “For you, at least.”

Isak tries to beat down the riot that starts up in his chest at that. Christ, this is doing no favors for his judgment.

(Even clouding his judgment - something he probably needs to get used to. Something he probably never will.)

“Wait,” Isak says. “You just want to give me a ride so we can make out in the back of your car again, don’t you?”

“Isak!” Even gasps, clutching at his chest. Talk about dramatics. “Such accusations. I can’t just be doing this out of the kindness of my heart?”

“You?” Isak lets the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “Never.”

“Wow.” Even mimes a stabbing in his heart. “Ouch.”

Isak sighs as loudly as he can. “Well,” he says, “if it was _just_ out of the kindness of your heart, then no, I don’t need a ride.”

Even quirks an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Isak says, with as serious a tone as he can muster. “I’d feel too bad, of course. _But_ , if you were _honest_ about why you were asking, I might, I _just_ might - ”

“Okay, okay,” Even says, grinning. “You got me. But can you blame me? You just have such a kissable face.”

Isak groans. “Stop being so gross, before the whole world can tell how gross you are.”

“I don’t mind,” Even says.

It’s the nonchalant way he says that, probably, that makes Isak stop in his tracks. Because it’s casual, and it’s matter of fact, and it’s entirely honest.

(And if Isak’s being entirely honest, he doesn’t know if he could match that tone, himself.)

There must be something in Isak’s hesitation that Even senses, because he straightens his legs and nudges Isak’s shoe with his own. It’s such a small, friendly gesture. But it feels so comforting at the same time.

“Unless you do,” Even says quietly.

Isak swallows hard. “Can I tell you something?”

Even taps the top of Isak’s foot with the toe of his sneaker, and he stays there.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Remember when I told you I was scared yesterday?” Isak says, turning his head to look at Even.

“Yeah?”

“I don’t think it’s really gone away yet,” Isak admits. “I wish I could tell you it has, though. I really do.”

Even reaches between them, palm of his hand ghosting over the back of Isak’s knuckles. He raises his eyebrows in silent question. Isak licks his bottom lip, somehow knowing exactly where he’s going with this, and nods. Carefully, Even takes Isak’s hand, fingers intertwining like they’ve done this a thousand times before. It’s unmistakable, from the outside looking in, what this means.

(And maybe Isak wants it to be unmistakable, even if it still scares the shit out of him.

Because if it’s obvious to the world, it’s obvious to him, too. What this means.)

“Isak,” Even says, “it’s okay to be scared.”

“You think so?”

Even nods slowly. “It doesn’t mean you’re not brave.”

Isak lets out a laugh he doesn’t really feel, a vain attempt to loosen the tightness in his throat. “You think I’m brave?”

Even squeezes his hand once, gently. “You were brave enough to talk to me when I was the new kid with next to zero friends,” he says. “You were brave enough to help me feel a little less alone.”

“I did?” Isak says, because apparently right now he’s incapable of doing anything but echo Even’s words like a dumb parrot.

“Yeah, Isak,” Even says, skimming his thumb over his skin. “You did. I don’t feel alone when I’m around you. Or weird, or stupid, or a giant failure. I just - ” he takes in a breath and lets out a shaky exhale, and that’s when it hits Isak just how huge this must feel to Even. To say something like this out loud.

(And yeah, Isak can relate. Even makes him want to say huge things, too. To fight past the fear and the weight that drags his words down to the pit of his stomach.

No matter what, Even makes the fight worth it.)

“I just feel like me,” Even finishes, and after the words come out his eyes widen, as if he can’t believe he had the audacity to say it.

“What a coincidence,” Isak says. Just this once, he lets himself grin. “I feel that way around you, too.”

Even’s answering smile is full to the brim of amazement. It’s such a good fucking look on him.

(All his smiles are.)

“Five minutes until we have to go down to the field,” Sana calls from the main band room, then. Even and Isak pick themselves off the ground. People start filing into the locker room, the boys and the girls and everyone else. None of them look in their direction; none of them have noticed that they’re still holding hands. But even if they were, that’d be okay. There’s nothing, at this point, that could make Isak want to let go.

Even turns to Isak, eyes warm with a happiness that makes Isak’s gut feel warm, too.

“You don’t have to say yes, but…” Even reaches out with his other hand and rests it on Isak’s cheek. “Can I kiss you?”

Even’s fingertips brush against Isak’s hair, and everything sort of seems to narrow in on that tiny motion. Isak looks into Even’s eyes, sees the brightness and kindness that reach deep, deep inside him, and he’s never felt more present in the moment, more aware. And Even is right here with him. And people aren’t watching, or at least, that’s what Isak feels, and honestly, doesn’t that matter more?

Some commotion catches his attention from the corner of his eye. He turns his head, catches sight of his friends. Eva with her arm around Vilde; Magnus shoving Mahdi’s shoulder. They’re all looking at him with varying levels of surprise and excitement, but it’s Jonas who catches his eye, who says nothing.

Who smiles quietly.

People aren’t watching, except for the people who matter.

Isak smiles back, and turns toward Even.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

Several things happen when Even leans in and kisses Isak softly on the lips.

Magnus gasps, “What the fuck!”

Jonas says, “That’s my boy!”

Eva yells, “You owe me twenty dollars, Isak Valtersen!”

Isak ignores it all, and hooks an arm around Even’s shoulders to pull him in closer -

And he smiles, through the warmth and the darkness. It’ll be a long, long time, he thinks, before he’ll stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow this is over finally!! can u believe i've been working on this fic since last august
> 
> anyway, some last few notes:
> 
> -this fic has a playlist which you can listen [here](https://open.spotify.com/user/strange-towns/playlist/7HIqeix9LZ2lepGiytY9Aw) if you'd like.
> 
> -i'd like to note that i don't really consider this, like, the real end to their story, because there's so much more that happens [actual competitions, as well as the end of the season and all the emotions that come with this being the seniors' last everything; Even graduating and figuring out what the fuck to do with his gap year; Isak's senior year and all the emotions that come with HIS last everything; his graduation and going to college and meeting Eskild his floor's RA; etc. etc.] but also, like, i think the boys will be okay through it all, so i'm pretty happy leaving it here.
> 
> -i've tried to make all the marching band shit as accessible as i can and any obscure references to the area i grew up in to a minimum, but if you have any questions at all i'm happy to answer!
> 
> -find me on [tumblr](http://canonicallyanxious.tumblr.com/) if you're so inclined =]
> 
> -and finally, thank you for everyone who made it to the end of this silly ass fic - the readers who've been with me since i first posted this in, like, October, and the readers who have found the story along the way, and everyone in between. Your support continues to blow me away, and it seriously means the world to me. <3
> 
> And that's it! Thank you for reading, y'all!


End file.
